


Cut You Free

by FISHnibWana



Series: You Run With Me [3]
Category: The Greatest Showman (2017)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Ao3 Stop Rearranging My Tags, F/M, Found Family, Gen, Hurt P. T. Barnum, Hurt Phillip Carlyle, Hurt/Comfort, Occasional swearing, Phillip Has a Secret and He's Terrified of It, Pray for Charity Barnum, Rape/Non-con Elements, She Does Her Best, Tags Have Changed as the Story Has Evolved, This Accident Was Waiting to Happen, poor woman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2019-09-05 05:02:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 20
Words: 71,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16804135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FISHnibWana/pseuds/FISHnibWana
Summary: Phillip has a secret. P.T. has an accident. Things could get interesting.The Rape/Non-con warning now applies, as I've begun to post for Part Two.Part 3 of the "You Run With Me" series, a Barnum/Carlyle friendship arc. Set after Phillip joins the circus but before Jenny Lind.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this idea and a few sentences sitting in my laptop forever, and I decided to expand it and post it as the next installment in the You Run With Me series.

**PART ONE**

She’s airborne the moment it happens.

She hears the pained shout, sees the disaster in a bleeding swipe of upended colour. She completes her flip, hands slapping and locking onto W.D.’s wrists, and she can feel in his muscles that he’s seen it too. They swing there in midair as the music cuts off as though under a blade, thirty feet above the grounded world.

W.D. swings her within reach of a rope and she lets go of his wrists to grab it, twining it deftly around her leg. W.D. drops from the trapeze to clamp on above her, and together they shimmy to the ground, landing with twin thuds amid the shocked and stilled performers.

“Get Carlyle,” W.D. says brusquely. He sprints toward Barnum.

Anne turns and sprints in the opposite direction.

Mr. Phillip Carlyle, she thinks, you’d better not be a fainter.

* * *

He’s bent over his desk, correcting the finance books, when the rehearsal suddenly goes silent.

Phillip looks up with the tip of his pencil denting the page. This is not the lull of direction, in which Barnum’s bellow can be heard rising over the excited chatter. It’s the silence of the unexpected, of something gone wrong, and he doesn’t like it.

He’s just debating whether or not to check on everyone when Anne comes running in, flushed with exertion. “Barnum’s hurt,” she says tersely, and a cold wash breaks over Phillip’s body. His chair screeches against the floor as he shoves it back. He darts around Anne and out to the arena, dodging gawking performers on the sidelines.

Instantly he’s struck by Barnum’s control. Nobody’s panicking, or if they are they’re doing it quietly, all low murmurs and loose huddles. The chaos of their favourite opening number has fallen away sharply into calm. And Barnum himself…

Barnum is pinned to Deng Yan’s target-board.

“Relax, Deng, it’s all right.” Barnum’s voice is rough, as if he’s swallowed a handful of gravel. Deng’s assistant is still strapped to the board, her eyes closed, Barnum’s sleeve brushing her ear. It’s not a dress rehearsal, thank God, or he would be throwing a fit about his coat. “Not your fault. Mia, we’ll have you down in a second.”

Mia has a look on her face that Phillip has never seen before. It’s barely suppressed panic, very much out of place in her profession. From above her bicep Barnum’s blood is leaking copiously down the board. The knife handle juts out of his left forearm like a tiny ivory tusk.

Deng Yan, usually so confident, stands ashen by Mia’s side. She grips her assistant’s outstretched hand. Lettie strokes Deng’s dark hair, her gaze fixed worriedly on Barnum. Everyone else seems afraid to approach.

Phillip quickly moves into that free space, his utilitarian boots kicking up sawdust. Barnum turns to him, and Phillip doesn’t miss the look of relief that flits across his face. “Phillip.” The ringmaster’s words are breathy, a sheen of sweat slicking his brow and chin. “Ah…we have a situation…”

“I can see that.” Phillip keeps his voice steady; as a theatre producer he’s seen his fair share of stage mishaps. “W.D., is she all right?”

“She’s fine.” W.D. successfully frees Mia’s right ankle and moves to her left. His hands are as steady as Phillip’s voice, but Phillip can read him pretty well by now, and he sees that he too is shaken. A myth exists, which he has spent his entire partnership with P.T. trying to dispel, that Barnum is basically invincible. If nothing else, this should prove his point. “Almost done.”

Phillip turns back to Barnum. “I miss _one_ rehearsal,” he quips, and he’s glad to see amusement flicker over Barnum’s ashen features. Then, in a lower voice, “Are _you_ all right?”

Barnum nods shortly, his gaze returning to Mia. Phillip wonders what’s going through that brilliant, unpredictable mind. He refrains from asking.

Mia’s right arm, stretched between Barnum and the board, is finally freed. She pulls it to her body and Barnum sags against the wooden target. If not for the seriousness of the situation Phillip would be laughing. How many times has he wanted to pin Barnum down, figuratively speaking? Now the man is here, completely at his mercy should he wish to rant, and all he can come up with is…

“I _told_ you this sequence was dangerous.”

W.D. finally extracts Mia from the board, and Deng Yan puts her arms around her and hustles her out of the way. Their eyes are averted from Barnum. Phillip doesn’t miss the flash of guilt in Barnum’s eyes.

“How did this happen?” Phillip drops his suspenders off his shoulders. He begins unbuttoning his shirt, the blood in his veins commanding a tempestuous tempo. “Deng’s not one to miss.” Unless, of course, she’s supposed to.

Barnum closes his eyes at the sight of Phillip’s shirt leaving his shoulders. “Bad timing,” he says shortly. “Entirely my fault.”

“How is it your fault?” He’s trying to keep his partner talking; he doesn’t really want to know how Phineas Taylor Barnum is capable of screwing up. He always guessed it would be spectacular if it happened, but this…

Maybe he’s been more invested in Barnum’s invulnerability than he believes.

“I tripped.” Barnum swallows. “Lost my balance, and grabbed at the target. Voilà.”

At the rate Deng flicks her knives, that could well have been a fatal error. “Well, I don’t think we should pull that knife out until the doctor comes.” Phillip folds his shirt into a useable wad, trying to look like he knows what he’s doing. “I assume you sent for one.”

“No time.” Barnum’s face is white, his lips pinched at the corners. “W.D., if you please…”

The acrobat reluctantly steps forward, wrapping one broad hand around the knife hilt. “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Phillip exclaims, slapping his hand down on W.D.’s. Normally he gives the man a wide berth, but this is surely a form of madness. “What are you _doing?_ ”

“Pulling it out.” W.D. doesn’t look any happier about it than Phillip does, but he’s obviously fully prepared to follow through. “Can’t leave him standing here.”

“You need to wait for the doctor.” Phillip can’t help thinking this shouldn’t need to be explained. “You don’t know what will happen if you pull that out. You could…”

“I’m not standing here for an hour waiting for someone to do what I can do myself.” Barnum nods at the garment in his hand. “If the offer is still on the table, you can put that shirt to good use.”

After a brief hesitation, Phillip steps forward and arranges his shirt around the knife hilt. He must look a little green around the edges, because Barnum dips his head to look into his face. “Hey, you’re not going to faint, are you? Because I have to tell you, kid, I’m in no position right now to catch you.”

Phillip laughs a little. Barnum’s humour is frequently odd and almost always welcome. “Relax, P.T.,” he returns, wishing blood didn’t have such a powerful tang. “You won’t be carrying me out of here anytime soon.”

He presses down, hard. The ringmaster loses his first bit of composure, grasping with his free hand at the edge of the board. His knuckles instantly turn white. “Sorry,” Phillip mutters, pressing relentlessly nevertheless. He can feel blood beginning to seep through the fine fabric.

W.D.’s hand tightens around the knife hilt. “Don’t move,” he warns both of them. “I don’t want any more blood in this ring.” He grunts. “That ain’t what I signed up for.”

“Wait,” Barnum says hoarsely. He unclips one of his suspenders and lifts it to his mouth. But then he hesitates, looking from one of them to the other. “Don’t let me go down,” he mutters, just for the three of them to hear. “They don’t need to see that.”

“We won’t.” Phillip tightens his grip on Barnum’s arm. “But, you know…it would be all right if you did.”

“No, it wouldn’t.” Barnum’s gaze flicks to his gathered performers, waiting with their eyes riveted on him. “Just.…don’t let me go down if I faint.”

He jams the suspender between his teeth and nods shortly.

In one smooth motion W.D. whips the knife out. Barnum’s arm jerks, and an agonised growl-whine escapes his teeth. Phillip keeps a good grip on the wound as W.D. braces Barnum. The ringmaster knocks his head back against the target. His eyes are clenched shut, beads of sweat trickling down his temples. He’s not fainting, but Phillip can feel the tremors in his tensed muscles. His nails are digging painfully into the bare flesh of Phillip’s bicep.

“Easy.” Phillip presses the shirt to both sides of the wound, trying in vain to staunch the blood flow. “You’re good.”

Barnum spits out the suspender. “I should probably go to the hospital,” he mutters. “Get out of your hair…you can finish rehearsal.”

Phillip almost drops the shirt. So _that’s_ why Barnum didn’t just sent everyone away. “What?” he demands. “ _Excuse_ me?”

“Finish rehearsal. You know the acts well enough, I think?”

Yes, he does. Barnum’s been kind but relentless in his pursuit of Phillip’s dancing abilities. They’ve spent many an hour going over the routines, especially those of the ringmaster variety. A few times Phillip has even dared to join in with rehearsal.

But that’s not in any sense the point. “My God, P.T., you’ve just been _impaled_. Is this really the time to be thinking about rehearsal?”

“We have a big show tomorrow night.”

“I repeat, is this the time…”

“The show must go on.” Barnum seems to be getting his breath back; W.D. moves back, letting Barnum take most of his own weight. “Can you do that for me, Phil? Please?”

What can he say, when Barnum looks at him that way? “Of course,” Phillip says helplessly, “if you think that’s important, but…”

“We hailed a carriage, Barnum; it’s out front.” Phillip doesn’t even hear Lettie approach, but she’s suddenly here, touching Barnum’s cheek with a worried frown. “Are you all right? Can we get you anything? Some water, maybe a blanket…?”

“No, I’m fine, Lettie, thank you.” Barnum touches her cheek in return, just two fingers fluttering against the edge of her beard, and gives her a weak but very Barnum smile. “Tell Deng not to worry, and let her and Mia have the rest of the day off.”

Phillip ties off the shirt around Barnum’s brawny forearm and winds an arm around his back. “Come on,” he coaxes. “You need to have that looked at.”

Barnum turns to the assembled performers, and the smile he flashes them is maddeningly convincing. “Don’t worry, everyone,” he calls, “it’s just a minor wound. Phillip will conduct the rest of rehearsal until I can come back. That won’t be long, so give him your full attention and don’t let this distract you.” He gives them a stern look, the same one he normally reserves for Caroline and Helen.

“Too bad we had to take you down,” Charles calls out, predictably the first one to offer sass. “A whole lot of people would pay to see P.T. Barnum pinned to a target.”

There’s a ripple of laughter through the Oddities, more a release of tension than anything. “Don’t get any ideas,” Barnum warns with an impish grin, “or I’m revoking your sword privileges.” He allows himself to be led off to another round of titters.

“W.D. can go with you,” Phillip says as the three of them head for the entrance, “make sure you get there okay…”

“Unnecessary.”

“P.T.…”

“I’ll be _fine_ , Phillip.” As they exit the building the cabbie stares at them with wide eyes. No doubt he’s never had a fare quite like this before. “Just keep rehearsing. Make sure Deng and Mia are all right.”

“I’m more concerned about _you_ at the moment.”

Barnum tries to step up into the open carriage, but he stumbles back with a muttered curse. Before Phillip can pretend to be useful W.D. wraps both arms around Barnum’s waist and firmly settles him into the conveyance. Barnum slumps back against the seat, his breathing slightly ragged, his hand clutching his bad arm. His eyes are glazed. It’s probably shock, and Phillip _knows_ someone should go with him, but there’s nothing he can do. He’s not the one taking ninety percent of the show. He’s also not Barnum’s brand of stubborn.

As Barnum leans his head back, his eyes clenched shut, Phillip quickly hops up next to the startled cabbie. He presses a few bills into the man’s grubby hand. “Make sure he gets into the hospital all right,” he says in a low, quick voice. “Don’t take no for an answer. Bring me back word that he’s made it there and I’ll make it worth your while.”

The cabbie salutes him with two fingers to his temple. Phillip hops down again, surveying Barnum’s tensed figure curled miserably around his wounded arm. “To the hospital, please,” he sighs, and he and W.D. stand back and watch as Barnum is driven away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I shamelessly pronounce that there is not nearly enough P.T. Barnum whump out there and that I have now made a long-debated contribution. Incidentally, if anyone is wondering, this scene is taken from the song "The Greatest Show," in which we see Barnum dance out of the way just as Deng Yan throws her knives.
> 
> Title taken from "The Greatest Showman" song "The Other Side": "You run with me/And I can cut you free..."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took me a while to get this chapter hammered out - hopefully the next one will not take as long!

“Good job today.” W.D. looks up at his sister’s voice, but Anne isn’t speaking to him. “It’s not easy holding a rehearsal together.”

He glances at Carlyle, who has paused nearby with an armful of props. “Ah, thank you,” Carlyle answers. “I realise it was a bit rough around the edges.”

“S’okay.” Anne shrugs one shoulder. She’s perched on a crate, covered in their mama’s old shawl, one slender leg crossed over the other. There’s nothing particularly flirtatious about her posture, but W.D. knows her. She wouldn’t be giving a man the time of day if she didn’t like something about him. “You should have seen our very first rehearsal. Lord, what a show _that_ was.”

Carlyle laughs, shrugging it off. W.D. frowns. His reaction is genuine, or looks genuine; the man’s a playwright, and now he’s taken up with Barnum. Who knows what’s real and what isn’t? Though, with Barnum, W.D. always knows (in spite of the flair and the posing and the utter unrelenting bullshit) when he’s on the up-and-up. With Carlyle…

A posh, opaque curtain hides the act he claims he doesn’t have. And every time W.D. reaches to pull it aside, to see what’s behind it, it flutters slyly out of his reach, unwilling to give up its secrets.

“You’re fallin’ for a pair of blue eyes.” W.D. stares darkly after Phillip’s disappearing figure, unwinding the bracing cloths from around his wrists. “That’s how men like that get their way.”

“I’m not fallin’ for anything.” Anne deliberately picks at the fraying edge of her shawl. “He’s not going to get his way if I don’t want him to.”

“Sure? He’s small, but he’s strong.”

Anne laughs. “You really think he’s that type?” she asks.

“Every white man’s that type with black women.” Even as he says it W.D. knows it’s not true. Barnum and Constantine and a dozen or so other Oddities have proven him wrong over the past few months. He’s grateful for that. And yet he’s baffled that Barnum would create a sanctuary like the circus and then invite a vulture into it. Doesn’t the man realise this is all they have?

Anne tilts her chin up, and there’s protective defiance written into every feature. “You tell me one time Barnum’s ever tried to lay a hand on me,” she shoots back, “ _one_ time I haven’t been safe walkin’ his halls, and I’ll tell you’re crazy and hit you in your teeth.”

It’s that kind of spirit that’s kept her and W.D. alive all these years. He loves it, treasures it, because he knows there are times it’s been the only thing standing between her and the hands of an evil man. But he also knows it hasn’t always been enough, and that worries him, because Barnum trusts Carlyle like he’s known the man his whole life, basing it on nothing more than a drink or two in a bar. And that’s a betrayal of the trust he has with W.D.

“Anne, there’s somethin’ wrong with that man.” W.D. voices the only thing he knows for sure. “Barnum doesn’t bring people here unless someone else has thrown ‘em out. Carlyle’s done somethin’, or he’s been somethin’, and that’s what drives him to the drink. You wanna take a chance on that?”

“I’m not takin’ chances on anyone. I’m not in love with him.”

“Sure you ain’t,” W.D. mutters.

“Well, I _ain’t._ ” Anne slips easily into the drawl of their youth with him, into that time when they lived much further south with their mama and hadn’t two free nickels to rub together. Mama is long since gone, taken by consumption, but her accent stays with them, clings to their speech when they’re alone together. “He’s whiter’n the cotton you used to pick in Mister Hayley’s fields. Can you see me with someone like that?”

He can’t, despite the trickle of white blood in her veins that marks her out as different from him. But then again he’d thought she was ruined for a father’s affection too, after ‘Mister Hayley’ and his ways with Mama. He never could have imagined the day when an older white man would touch Anne’s arm and she wouldn’t flinch, when he could spin her around playfully during a group number and she would laugh, when he could lean in, talking animatedly to her face, and she’d meet his eyes without fear.

He’s not surprised by much, since joining Barnum’s Circus, and he’s not surprised that Carlyle wants Anne. He _will_ be surprised if he turns out to be nothing more than a harmless, charming white boy in a suit.

“I’m just tellin’ you to be careful, Anne.” W.D. rolls the two long strips of cloth into a neat ball. “Imma pretty damn good acrobat, but I can’t be everywhere at once. So watch yourself, okay?”

Anne smiles and touches his hands, still harsh from his cotton-picking days. Their trapeze act was nothing more then than him sneaking out after the other labourers collapsed into bed, swinging with his hands from a rough branch until they were bleeding and raw, already sore from a day contending with cotton burrs and saw briars. He would let Anne hang from his neck as he swung and twisted, let her balance on the tops of his bare feet, until she feared nothing but the interruption of the dawn.

The night they buried their mother, as he swung with Anne weeping into his chest and the moon consoling itself behind the clouds, W.D. caught a glimpse beyond the fields. It was the flicker of a light, no more than the wink of a star through the clouds to the north, but it called to him, beckoned him to ascend, to straighten his back and lift his eyes and fly. He swung down, and they hit the ground running, and they didn’t stop running until the moment P.T. Barnum extended his hand across a table.

He was the first white man to ever shake hands with W.D. He was the first white man to ever tip his hat to Anne. He’s the only sanctuary they have.

“Just watch yourself,” he repeats, because that’s the best they can do in this world, in a world that would love to see them swing, but not from a trapeze. “Just ‘cause his skin is white don’t mean his soul is right.”

* * *

“Whoa, whoa.” The carriage rumbles to a halt inside the gates of the Barnum estate. Phillip’s knee bumps against Lettie’s as the conveyance rocks. “Here you are, sir…and, ah, miss.”

Phillip glances at Lettie. Her fingers are tangled together, clenched tightly around a fistful of blue skirt. Her downcast eyes are carefully averted from the back of the cabbie’s head. She’s barely said a word the whole way here. Phillip doesn’t blame her. The train ride was more a circus than Barnum’s show.

He hops down from the carriage and turns to Lettie, who is still sitting as if afraid to move. He offers her his hand. She takes it with her eyes still lowered. The cabbie stares at her as she descends. She smooths her skirts self-consciously as Phillip pays their fare. She’s flicking little glances up, drawn by the magnificence of the house, but her hands have gone back to twisting the material of her best dress.

As the carriage moves off she finally whispers, “It’s the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen.”

“Haven’t you been here before?” Phillip can’t imagine Barnum not asking his circus performers over. He’s never shown any reticence before to be associated with his motley crew.

“I’ve been invited.” Lettie stares up at the arched gate, the towering house with its plenitude of windows. “But I’ve never…”

She trails off. Wordlessly Phillip offers her his arm, and she takes it, ducking her head. Together they walk the long path up to the front doors.

Phillip knocks loudly. Then he steps back in line with Lettie, waiting for the telltale footsteps. “Do they have a butler?” Lettie asks softly, her eyes taking in the weave of the ornate doormat.

“Yes.” Phillip squeezes the crook of her elbow. “Don’t worry, P.T. wouldn’t hire anyone who would laugh at you.”

“They don’t have to laugh.” Lettie keeps her gaze carefully fixed on the doormat. “It’s in their eyes.”

The door opens before he can answer. At once he whips off his hat. “Charity,” he says, humbled that she answered the door herself. “I got your telegram. Is it all right that we’re here?”

“Of course, I wouldn’t have it any other way. Lettie,” Charity adds warmly, “I’m so glad you’ve finally come.”

“I hope I’m not intruding, Missus Barnum.” Lettie still hasn’t looked up. “I should have asked before…”

“Yours is a standing invitation.” Charity takes Lettie’s free hand in her own. “And what’s this ‘Missus Barnum’ business? I thought I argued you out of that months ago.”

Lettie finally allows herself a small smile. “Come in,” their hostess urges, stepping back to allow them entrance. “Phin is resting, but he’ll be more than happy to be diverted. He wouldn’t stay in the hospital, even with the doctor’s recommendation.”

Lettie turns slowly in place, staring wide-eyed at the towering ceiling, the marble floors, the elegant staircase. She has the look of a peasant who has lost her way and found herself in an enchanted castle. Phillip meets Charity’s gaze, and they share a wistful smile. They never had the luxury of such enchantment.

Charity reaches for Lettie’s shawl to hang it up. “Oh, you don’t need to do that,” Lettie objects in alarm. “I can do it myself.”

“Now now, you’re my guest, and you’ll be treated as such.” With gentle insistence Charity gets her way, lifting the shawl from Lettie’s shoulders. Before Phillip can say anything she plucks the hat from his hands. “Don’t make a fuss, or the butler will come and scold me.”

Lettie laughs shyly, and Phillip sees the first spark of energy reignite in her face. “It’s beautiful,” she murmurs again. “Lawks – our whole chorus section could fit in your front hall.”

“Yes.” Charity’s tone is dry. “And they could do the cancan, and not have to worry about breaking anything.” She arches a brow at Phillip. “But I’m glad you like it.”

“How’s P.T.?” Phillip keeps his voice low, although he certainly doesn’t need to. Approximately half a country resides between the foyer and the parlour. “Is he in pain?”

“Yes, he is, and the blood loss has made him weak, and he won’t admit to a word of it.” Charity threads Lettie’s ample arm through her own slender one, and the three of them walk the halls, their steps echoing together in a complex dance. “I made Helen take her nap on top of him so he wouldn’t move.”

Barnum may be the human equivalent of a hurricane, but Charity is the immoveable oak that breaks his force. “How many stitches did he need?” Phillip inquires, still sickened by the memory of blood bubbling out of Barnum’s arm. “I imagine it was bad.”

Charity’s face pinches at the eyes and mouth. “It was…unpleasant,” she says. “They had to cauterise it. And the stitching took forever.”

“I’m sorry,” Phillip murmurs. “I tried to send someone with him…”

“It’s not your fault,” Charity interrupts firmly. “Phineas has always been independent. It’ll take more than you and I to change him.”

They arrive at the parlour door. “Before we go in,” Charity murmurs, drawing to a halt on the threshold, “how close was it? To him…to him…”

Lettie takes both of her hands. “Deng would never let that happen,” she says passionately. “Especially not to _him_.”

Charity squeezes Lettie’s hands. “She would never let _this_ happen, either,” she reminds her, the words dropping heavily between them. She passes into the parlour, her footsteps soundless on the thick carpet.

Barnum is stretched out on his back on a couch, his left arm bandaged and in a sling. On his chest Helen is curled up like a cat. She’s drooling a little. So is Barnum. Neither stir.

“So,” Phillip says at last. He can’t help grinning. “He _does_ sleep.”

“On occasion.” Charity bends over her husband. “When his body suddenly remembers it’s no longer twenty.”

She begins to gently card her fingers through Barnum’s mussed hair. His eyelids flutter open. For a moment he gazes up at her. It’s so naked, so vulnerable in that drowsy moment, that it seems wrong to bear witness.

“Phin, love.” Charity’s tone is affectionate, though it has an odd undercurrent of woundedness. “I’m sorry to wake you, but you have visitors.”

Barnum blinks at her. Then, “But…I wasn’t asleep.”

Lettie stifles a laugh. “I’ll leave you to it,” Charity says wryly to them, her fingers lingering in her husband’s hair. “I’ll go tell Caroline you’ve come – please, make yourselves comfortable.”

Phillip leans over the back of the couch as Barnum wipes at the wet corner of his mouth. “I knew it,” he teases as Barnum’s gaze slowly travels the distance to his face. “You drool.”

A smile crooks the corner of Barnum’s mouth. “Nice to see you, too,” he rasps. Then, after a moment...“You know, I’m fully capable of bribing my own cabbie.”

“Oh? How did you find out?”

“He didn’t strike me as the Good Samaritan type. How much do I owe you?”

“How about one full day of sanity?”

“Sorry, I don’t carry bills in that denomination.” Barnum’s gaze wanders to Lettie, who is hanging back, and his face lights up. “Lettie!” He tries to sit up, but he’s hampered by the little girl on his chest. “You finally accepted my invitation. Why didn’t you come sooner?” His tone turns slightly scolding. “I’ve been inviting you for months.”

Lettie hesitates, glancing at Phillip, and Barnum’s expression falls a little. “No, no, that’s all right,” he says. “I know. Here…” He tries to shift again, but thankfully his efforts are interrupted by Caroline bursting into the room.

“Phillip!” She dodges furniture to reach him, dropping a drawing pad and a box of pencils on her father’s legs. She hugs Phillip tightly. “You’re _here_ ,” she adds in a lower tone as Barnum shushes her, a hand on Helen’s hair. “I missed you.”

Phillip barely has time to return the hug before Caroline darts to Lettie, throwing her arms around her waist. “I love your dress,” she whispers as she pulls back, running both hands over the silky fabric of the skirts. “You’re so pretty in blue.”

Lettie blushes at the praise. “She is indeed,” Phillip asserts. “ _Very_ pretty.”

“And you look handsome in dirt.” Caroline points at a dusty patch on the knee of his trousers, giggling. “ _Very_ handsome.”

Now it’s Phillip’s turn to blush. “I’m afraid I didn’t have time to change,” he says, stammering a little, caught off guard by his _faux pas_. “There was so much to do…”

“It doesn’t matter,” Caroline interrupts him. “Daddy comes home sometimes with elephant poop on his shoes, and nobody cares.” With that she takes out a handkerchief, wetting it with her tongue, and wipes at the spot until it disappears.

“Thank you,” Phillip mutters as Barnum and Lettie grin. He clears his throat. “P.T., how are you feeling?”

“Confined.” Barnum’s voice is cheerful but strained, and Phillip thinks of the scorched and lacerated flesh hidden beneath the bandage. “Listen, Phil, do me a favour and carry Helen to the other couch, would you? I want to sit up.”

“Hm.” Phillip pretends to think about this. “And should I let you do that, I wonder?”

Barnum tries on his stern look again, but it’s somewhat compromised by his unkempt hair and the wet spot on his pillow. “Perhaps I should remind you that on a pay scale of one to ten, you and I are on opposite ends.”

“Very true,” Phillip smiles, “but we’re not at the circus, we’re at your house. And here you are not the ringmaster.”

Barnum chuckles, an exasperated sound. “Ah, a quick study,” he says dryly as Charity enters the room. “Chairy, please tell Phillip I’m allowed to sit up.”

He and Charity share a look, and Phillip is surprised by the thread of tension that extends underneath their affection. “Very well,” Charity concedes at last, “but I insist you not exert yourself.” She nods at Phillip, and he circles around to the front of the couch.

“She’s growing,” Barnum confides as Phillip tries to lift Helen without jolting his injured arm. “I used to be able to do this and still take a good breath.”

“That’ll teach you to be difficult.” Phillip finally gets a good grip on the little girl. “Oof, she _is_ getting heavy,” he grunts as he lifts her.

Barnum watches as Phillip carefully lays Helen out on the second couch, cradling her head with one hand until it safely nestles into a cushion. “How was rehearsal?” he asks after a few seconds.

Charity makes an exasperated noise. “Phineas, they haven’t even sat down yet.” She watches as he struggles to an upright position, careful of his wounded limb. There’s a thin line of tension cutting the skin between her brows, something Phillip wouldn’t notice if he didn’t know her. “Would anyone like tea?” she finally says, turning her eyes away. “I was just about to put some on.”

“Tea would be lovely, thank you.” Phillip takes a seat next to Helen, lifting her feet into his lap to make room. She stirs a little but doesn’t wake up, and he places a soothing hand on her ankle.

“And you, Lettie?”

“I’ll help you,” she rushes out. “Please. Let me.”

For a moment it seems as though Charity will refuse. But then, “Thank you, that would be wonderful,” she says, and Lettie’s relief is palpable. “Caroline, why don’t you go and play while they talk?”

“She’s fine here, Chairy.” Barnum ruffles Caroline’s hair, and she ducks away with a giggle. “I promised to draw Tom Thumb’s horse for her. I can do that and talk at the same time.”

Barnum can do about a hundred things while he’s talking, all of which most people would struggle to do silent. “Right then,” Charity says, taking Lettie’s hand in hers. “Make sure he stays put, Phillip. We’ll be back soon.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are found-family tensions and tea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like a heel for waiting so long to come out with this chapter. I've had horrendous writer's block since the beginning of January - it's worse than constipation, guys, I mean you can't even take a laxative - and I've also been busier than I thought possible. And, well, here we are. I am working on the next chapter as you read this.
> 
> You guys are beautiful! :)

Laundresses don’t need slender fingers. They need callouses to protect them from the scalding heat, strong arms to lift bundles of soiled clothing. The billowing clouds of steam and long hungry hours would test the mettle of any man, but laundry women are tough, hardy in another way.

Charity’s fingers are slender, but years of living in borderline poverty have roughened them. Maybe Barnum would like to hide his past from the world, but he can’t hide the tells on his own wife’s hands. Not from someone like Lettie.

“You’re a woman, Lettie.” Charity takes down a silver teapot from a shelf. “May I ask you something?”

Startled, Lettie nearly drops a canister of tea. _You’re a woman_ is not something she hears every day. “Of – of course,” she manages to say. “Whatever you like.”

Charity sets the teapot on a silver tray. “Am I a good wife to him?” she asks.

Lettie drops the canister with a loud clatter. She’s never dreamed of hearing such an absurd question, let alone of having to answer it. Charity is not only a _good_ wife, she is the only kind of wife Lettie puts any stock in. If she ever gets the chance – and she doubts she ever will – she hopes she can be half the partner Charity is.

“Of course you are,” she says passionately, almost scolding. “Why on earth wouldn’t you think so?”

Charity smiles a little and lays out the teacups. A servant should be doing this; probably Lettie should be doing this. “Sometimes I wonder,” she says, “what kind of wife Phineas should have.”

This is an angle Lettie’s never considered before. The answer has always seemed obvious.

“Phineas is impulsive.” Charity says this as if it is a revelation. “And I love that he wants to fly. But I don’t know whether I should be giving him a push or holding him back. Whether it’s worth the risk, or not. I never really do.”

Nobody, ever, asked Lettie’s opinion before she met the Barnums. “I don’t know if you have a choice,” she ventures. “Do you?”

Charity hums as steam begins to peep out from the kettle. Her graceful fingers tap lightly against the teapot’s silver sheen. She looks so thoughtful that Lettie, hesitantly, lays her own fingers against Charity’s. Most people don’t want a bearded woman touching them, as if her oddity is a contagion. But Lettie has learned that Barnum friendship doesn’t keep its distance. It draws near. It draws others.

“I know you worry about him,” she murmurs. “I’m sorry. We try to look after him, you know – like he looks after us.”

Charity smiles a little, again. “Phin doesn’t let anyone look after him,” she observes. And then, “I love him, Lettie. I love who he is. I don’t want to see his wings clipped. But I can’t bear to see them broken either.”

Silence reigns until the kettle usurps it with a militant whistle. 

* * *

_You should offer to go on for him._

Barnum selects a pencil and awkwardly tries to prop the sketch pad on his knees. Caroline lays her head against his shoulder, gaze resting lazily on the blank sheet. Phillip watches their wordless language of affection. She will never have to drink her memories away. Forever she will have the feel of her father’s shoulder against her cheek, the sight of skilled fingers idling away solely for her amusement.

A luxury Phillip’s vast wealth has never been able to afford.

“So.” Barnum flourishes with the pencil, oblivious to Phillip’s brooding. “How was rehearsal?”

 _Did they behave_ is the unspoken question. “It was fine. It probably could have gone better, but I guess it could also have gone worse.”

Barnum begins to sketch with fluid, confident motions. “I take it they were distracted.”

“That. And Charles…”

Barnum smiles.

Caroline looks up, query poised, but Barnum is as swift to move on as the tip of his pencil. “How do the acts look for tomorrow?” he asks, eyes riveted on the page.

“Great.”

“Deng and Mia?”

“I don’t know. But you know them; I doubt they’ll want to take a hiatus even for one show.” Phillip rubs a thumb soothingly over the jut of Helen’s anklebone; her breathing has changed, and she’ll be awake soon. “Which brings me to another point. What do you want us to do for tomorrow?”

“In what sense?”

“Well, you won’t be able to go on like this.”

“In what sense?” Barnum repeats, making an effort to sound jovial _._ “I’ll be ready for tomorrow, don’t you worry about that.”

Maybe his ears are still ringing from rehearsal. Phillip tilts his head forward. “I’m sorry, I may be losing my hearing. Did you say you’ll be ready for _tomorrow?_ ”

“Ah, his hearing persists.”

“ _Tomorrow_ , as a synonym for _breakfast_? I certainly hope so. Because the only other meanings I can think of are _sitting on the couch reading to my girls_ , or _taking a leisurely stroll around my estate_ , or…”

“Yes, Daddy, do that.” Caroline speaks against his sleeve. “Don’t do the show tomorrow. Stay here and read us _Tom Thumb_.”

For a moment Barnum weakens. It’s so subtle, Phillip almost misses it. But then it disappears, and Barnum is again every inch the showman. “There’s no one to go on for me, darling,” he says, sounding too apologetic for what Phillip knows he really feels. “Every show needs a ringmaster.”

 _And every ringmaster needs a show_. “Maybe Phillip can go on for you, then,” Caroline says, her eyes darting to Phillip. “He’s good enough, right?”

Barnum looks up. “Sure he is. Of course he is,” he says. His lips quirk. “He’s Phillip.”

“He’s Phillip,” Caroline repeats, satisfied. And for a moment, just as Barnum had, Phillip weakens, dangerously enough to risk condemning himself.

 _I can’t._ To his immense relief the thoughts barrage him, so deeply entrenched that they aren’t even really thoughts but emotions. _I just can’t, and I can’t explain it to you. If I did, all of this – visits, home, hugs, shows and shots and sanity – would end. And I don’t want it to. God help me, I don’t know how to do without it anymore._

“There’s a lot that goes into being a ringmaster.” Phillip speaks in a perfectly reasonable voice, but his pulse is jittery and spiking. “I don’t think I’ll be ready for a good long while.”

Barnum looks at him, and Phillip lifts his chin. The pencil is paused over the horse’s half-formed mane, pressed hard into the page, and he feels like that horse, awaiting his formation, stubbornly resisting the vision that would bring his two-dimensional form leaping off the page. Barnum’s expression is seeing and almost wounded, and Phillip drops his gaze from that benign puzzlement, studying his hand protectively clasped over Helen’s ankle.

At that moment Charity and Lettie re-enter the room. Helen stirs, sending a wave of relief over Phillip’s shoulders. He’s grateful for any distraction. As she stretches and yawns he tickles the bottoms of her feet to chase away the last of sleep. “Guess who’s here,” he says, and she lets out a delighted shriek. “Sleepy-bones.”

His nurse’s old name for him tumbles off his lips like a pebble. Helen scrambles into his lap for a hug, and as he obliges he points over her shoulder at Lettie, who is waiting patiently for the usual adoration. Helen jumps down and runs to her, throwing her arms around her neck. “Why didn’t you wake me up?” she demands. “Did you sing?”

“No.”

“ _Please_ sing.” Helen lets Lettie sit down, then scrambles onto her lap. “Please?”

“Helen, be patient.” Charity sets down the tea-tray, glancing between Phineas and Phillip. She seems to have caught something she can’t immediately identify, but she straightens without a word. “Lettie is here as a friend, not a performer.”

“But her voice is so _pretty_.” Helen casts a look plaintively at Phillip, and he just knows his resolve not to enter the ring will not last if she and her sister join forces. “Can’t you sing for us, Phillip? Together?”

“First your father has to tell me what to do for tomorrow.” Phillip speaks as if his heart isn’t hammering against his ribcage. “Right, Barnum?”

The man finishes off the horse with a swipe of the pencil, and Caroline takes it with a kiss to his slightly stubbled cheek. “Thank you, Daddy,” she says quietly, sincerely. “It’s beautiful.”

She comes over to sit next to Phillip, showing him. It _is_ beautiful, but it is not the stuff of reality. Barnum is incapable of sketching in anything but shades of the mythic and mystical. If he expects to remake Phillip in that image, he is wasting his time.

“I’m going on tomorrow.” Barnum doesn’t look at his wife, and she doesn’t look at him, and the tea spirals from her capable teapot-laden hands into the cups. “The show needs a ringmaster. One way or the other.”

 _When you fall off a horse, you don’t walk away from it. You get back on. And that’s not for you, that’s for the horse._ Phillip hears this mantra as if freshly from the lips of his riding master. Horses could be traumatised when they threw their riders, unless the rider immediately got back in the saddle. Barnum is concerned for the horse, not for himself.

But he could have been killed. He could have been, and there would have been no more whimsical sketches, no more singing _improviso_ at the top of his lungs whilst cavorting like a madman, no more husband and father and friend and rescuer. He could have been killed, and yet despite the blood loss and risk of infection he won’t rest.

And yet, to his shame, that’s not what scares Phillip the most. No, what scares him most is what he’ll have to do if Barnum can’t go on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was told the bit about the horses by an experienced rider. I also lived it out when I was thrown off a cantering horse and blacked out. As soon as I revived and proved I could stand, my instructor made me get back on and finish the lesson.  
> Not saying it's wise or unwise. Just saying.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lettie has something to say, and Barnum and Phillip continue down the road of lovable idiocy.

“I want to show you something.”

Phillip pauses with his hat in his hands. Lettie is waiting in the darkened hall of the circus, her best dress no more than a faint sheen in the shadows. “What is it?” he asks, because with circus people you just never know, and he’s tired.

She nods at him to follow, her high-heeled footsteps clacking away. Left with no choice, unless he wants to live with unsatisfied curiosity, he follows her into the back where the costumes hang until they both stand before a dusty wardrobe. Lettie’s words fall with a slight echo against the cold and clammy walls, vaguely seeking a target and finding him instead. “Let me ask you something,” she says.

“Lettie, I have my reasons for not going on for Barnum, and I can’t explain them to you. So please, let’s not talk about it.”

“Actually, I wanted to ask why you’re not courting Anne. But I like yours too.”

Phillip can’t honestly remember the moment he first considered himself answerable to a bearded woman. “I want to court her,” he says. “But I can’t.”

“I know you think that. I asked _why_.”

Out in the world Lettie is shy, ashamed, cowering. In Barnum’s circus she is bold, brash, soaring to the heights of her magnificent voice. “Lettie, if I could tell you I would. It’s just…” Phillip sags back against the wardrobe, dishevelling his hair with his fingers.

After a moment Lettie reaches up and smooths his hair, flicking away his fingers like wearisome mosquitoes. “Oh, Carlyle,” she sighs, “I didn’t think you were that type.”

“That type…no!” Phillip rockets back up like a shot. “Lettie, I don’t care about her skin.”

“What, then? Is it W.D.? Listen, if that’s all, I can…”

“It’s not W.D.” Well, mostly not. “It’s _me_ , Lettie.”

“What do you mean, it’s you? You already in love?”

“No, I’m not. It’s just… _me_.”

They stand there, each on the opposite edge of an impassable crevice, and stare at each other across the chasm. “Here,” Lettie says at last, opening the door of the wardrobe. “Look.”

Phillip does. After a moment he puts a hand in, and his fingers meet red silk as smooth as sunrise on a river. He takes out the costume and holds it up to the meagre light. It is just as he saw it in Barnum’s drawings, except it’s better, because it is textured and real and meant for him. He runs a palm over the jet-black pants, the silken white shirt, the gold trim marking the seams. It is beautiful, exquisite, and just looking at it he knows it will fit perfectly.

“He wouldn’t have made that for you if he didn’t think you were good enough.” Lettie’s voice is soft. “Barnum is in the business of believing in people. I don’t know what you come from, and I don’t care to know. It doesn’t matter.”

“It does.” Phillip stares at the costume Barnum made with his own hands. “To me.”

“Not to Barnum. And maybe not to Anne. You think you’re the only one here with a past? Let it out, Carlyle, and then let it go. That's all anyone can do.”

Phillip carefully hangs the costume back in the wardrobe. “You don’t understand,” he says, the simple truth heavier than a leaden bar across his shoulders. “You couldn’t.”

And he shuts the wardrobe door on the possibility of everything.

* * *

The next morning, as early sunlight is slanting through the windows, Phillip comes into the office to find Barnum’s bandage hanging between his arm and his teeth.

“Barnum, what…”

He rounds the desk, barely avoiding the material chaos that is Barnum’s existence, and stops short at the sight of ugly, charred flesh.

“Changing it.” Barnum spits the words between the damp cloth hanging from his lips. His hand is shaking. “Got dirty.”

It didn’t get dirty, it bled. There’s a difference, and Barnum should know it, but it’s too much to hope for. “Wait here,” Phillip manages to say, and then he stumbles out of the office, sagging against the wall with staggering breath.

He can smell it. His own charred flesh, rising like a mist from his damaged back. He gags into his sleeve, Barnum’s wicked wound hovering before his eyes. He knows he should go back in and help. He wants to. But his feet bear him away from the office instead, toward the bare residences of the circus performers, and he knows the past will not free him yet from its selfish clutches.

“Barnum needs some help cleaning the wound,” he hears himself say, standing awkwardly in the doorway of the small room Anne and Lettie share. His voice sounds hoarse. “In his office. Can you…?”

He stands stiffly while Anne gathers a few things and then slips past him. Long after her light footsteps have faded away he stands there, staring into the empty room. He can feel the end of his father’s cane biting like a snake, and he can feel the burn of fire. And worse than that he can feel the hands, the freeze of bitterness slowly growing inside him until he stops feeling and simply goes numb at every level. _I’m sorry_ , he says to no one in particular. _I didn’t want it to happen this way._

But no one takes notice. Because no one is meant to.

He ventures slowly back to the office, shamefaced like a soldier who has turned tail in battle. Barnum is sitting quietly as Anne rebandages his arm, skillfully winding the cloth around the grisly wound until it is hidden. Little wisps of dark hair escape her braid – he loves her best without her wig – framing the intent dimples of concentration marking her brow and chin. A bowl of water, reddish and soiled, sits nearby. Her slender hands are light and agile, careful, tender, firm. And he thinks suddenly, he could love a God who made her. But could such a God – a lover of beauty and goodness and strength – love him?

She senses his scrutiny and looks up, and instantly he is impaled on her gaze. When she is bedecked in her pink wig and dazzling leotard she is scandalously beautiful, ravishingly bold. But as she is now – shawled, plain-booted, in the form of a mortal – she is reserved, as though she has transformed from the queen back into the slave. It hurts him to see, but he understands. When he is under Barnum’s sway, singing and dancing, he is free. When he is Phillip Carlyle, balancing accounts and baiting the upper class, he remembers that night in the kitchen so long ago, and he is that man again who no longer knows himself, or even cares.

“Is it okay?” He doesn’t sound anything like himself. But it’s too late to go back on the past, even in light of the brutally stitched wound reddening from early infection. “Will you be fine to go on tonight?”

Anne drops her eyes from his, but the purse of her lips is angry. “I’ll be fine,” Barnum affirms, passively allowing Anne’s tiny hands to finish their work. “For the last time, Phillip, don’t worry about it.”

Anne doesn’t speak to him as she leaves, cradling the bloodied bowl of water in her hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I was planning to keep you in total suspense for a while longer, but I've changed my mind because, hey, I can't do that to all of you lovely, lovely people. <3 So the next chapter will give you at least part of Phillip's secret - because cliffhangers are the pits and I know this and I am not actually a bad person.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which matters come to a head and decisions are made. Also, PLEASE READ THIS: the first part of this chapter deals with trauma and brief, non-explicit sexual content, so PLEASE proceed with caution.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised to reveal part of Phillip's secret/past and here it is! More to come...but first enjoy this chapter! :)

_It happens in this way._

_They sneak in that night, he and Michael, because their mother is a light sleeper and early to bed. They talk in low tones, half-physical brotherly banter that Michael wins mostly because he’s tall, and go in by the back entrance._

_The first thing Phillip notices is the smell. Carmina always keeps something warming on the stove for their post-theatre supper, and to a seventeen-year-old boy it’s heaven. They quickly make their way into the kitchen, voices dropping to a whisper._

_Michael sees it before he does. True to the order of their birth he’s always first in everything, and he strolls in with his calm, brutal stride and right into everything that will go wrong for the next thirteen years._

_“Enough, Phillip.” Theodore Carlyle stands, shaky but proud, as Phillip’s eyes take in the scene. His father’s displaced waistcoat and suspenders, the servant-girl lying sprawled with her skirts up over her dark thighs, the forgotten burn of the stove…_

_After a moment Theodore adds, brusquely, “Go.” Carmina gathers herself up but, defying the urgency of the command, she first rearranges her skirts. It is far too dignified, and as she walks past with her chin tilted up she looks Phillip in the eye. Her defiance is sharp with humiliation. This is not the first time._ Slut _and_ whore _freeze in his throat, forbidden by her angry tears that will not fall._

_As she departs Theodore’s order lingers in the aromatic air, floating like a body in the Dead Sea. Phillip wishes it would sink forever out of sight, just as he wills away Carmina laid bare like a gluttonous feast. Michael doesn’t say anything. He just stands there, his mouth growing tighter and tighter, until it looks as if it will snap._

_Finally, Theodore says, “Go to bed.”_

_Phillip can’t think of a single more absurd thing to do. The happiness has leaked out of him like sand from a broken hourglass, and is he now supposed to lie alone with that emptiness? “How can you say that?” he demands, wishing he could blame his hoarse voice on too many high-pitched_ arias _. “After this…this…”_

 _“That’s enough, Phillip.” Michael’s teeth grind on the words like shattered glass. “Go to bed.” And then, in a scornful tone that stuns Phillip like a blow, “In the_ kitchen _, Father?”_

_He turns away._

_Phillip doesn’t know what he hopes to accomplish, but he lunges forward and grabs Michael’s arm. “He said enough, Phillip,” Michael snaps, pulling back._

_“You have a_ duty _, you’re the older son…”_

_“Phillip, for God’s sake, leave it!” Michael shakes him off so abruptly he nearly clocks him in the chin. “It happens! The sooner you realise that…”_

_“Don’t you realise what he did?”_

_“You want a divorce? You want to spread a scandal around town? You think that would make Mother happy?” Michael shoves him back with enough force that Phillip will be wearing the bruise of his brother’s pain the next morning. “Don’t be naïve.”_

_“You’re going to let this go?”_

_“_ You’re _going to let this go.”_

_“Boys, that’s enough.” Theodore speaks as if he still has one iota of credible authority left, and Phillip turns toward the stairs and his sleeping mother before he can think._

_This time Michael grabs_ him _. They wrestle. Locked in a violent embrace they stumble around the kitchen, grunting and tugging. Phillip struggles to be free, and Michael holds him back, and there’s a terrible moment when they can’t find their balance…_

_Michael’s weight drives Phillip down onto the scorching heat of the stove, laying down a stripe of fire across his lower back. He can actually feel his shirt being seared into his flesh, a bubbling agony that bursts out in a blinding scream. After an eternity of half-seconds Michael finds his feet and hauls Phillip off the stove._

_“Oh God.” Michael throws his brother down to the kitchen floor, straddling his thrashing form. “Phillip, no…”_

_“Call for the doctor.” Theodore stands in the doorway, his face ashen. He looks ten years older, twenty years. “Run!”_

_Michael releases Phillip and sprints, his athletic form disappearing in the direction of the butler._

_Phillip twists onto his stomach, hands pressed against his screaming flesh. His teeth grind together hard enough to chip. He’s never felt pain like this. His father is not warm, but he's also not a physical man, has never done any worse than give his sons a stinging rap on the wrist. He’s not prepared for this. He’s not prepared for what this means._

_Theodore makes a sound like a clipped moan. Phillip manages to look up, his lips stretched in a rictus. His father’s face is bleached of colour. The smell of supper mingles horribly with the rancour of scorched flesh. Revulsion and betrayal twist Phillip’s features into a tight skein. He can’t help it. It wells up without warning and overflows the bounds of his fractured control._

_His father’s lips go paper-white. With one motion he lifts his cane and jams the end into Phillip’s burn. It is final, like putting a seal on a folded letter._

* * *

It’s ten minutes to showtime when everything goes to hell.

It’s late evening, the best time to do a show. Costumes have been donned and adjusted, make-up applied, and the animals decked out in their finery. Everything should be good to go. Phillip himself is dressed down in a shirt and casual trousers, ready as usual to do anything from directing backstage movement to fetching stray costume pieces.

And then he hears the commotion.

He follows the sound, sidestepping hurrying performers as he goes. He rounds a tall rack of costumes to see Deng Yan throwing things around the dressing area. Not knives, at least.

“I will perform.” Her Chinese accent is thicker when she’s worked up, which doesn’t happen often. She’s as cool as steel and stronger. “I _will!_ ”

She tosses a boot at a stack of crates. Barnum catches it neatly out of the air with his good hand. His left arm is crooked awkwardly, the red sleeve bulky with the hidden dressing. An unhealthy sheen of sweat slicks his face.

“Deng, listen to me.” Despite his discomfort Barnum is soothing, reasonable. “Nobody will blame you for not being able to go on.”

“No, they won’t. Because I _will_ go on!”

With this declaration comes a flying headpiece. Her aim is preternatural, and she hits a poster of Vasily dead-centre. Phillip takes a step forward, just enough to make himself known. “Is everything all right?” he asks, trying to sound calm despite his knowledge that massive diarrhoea has just stricken one of their elephants.

“Yeah, just a little stage fright.” Barnum’s worried eyes don’t leave his performer. “It hit her about twenty minutes ago.”

Phillip has seen stage fright before. This is more like stage _anger_. “Deng…” he tries, and instantly she whirls on one long-booted heel.

“ _You_ do not say anything,” she hisses, shocking him with her vitriol. “I am not a child. You don’t have to say these things. I am not…”

Abruptly she sinks down on a crate.

Barnum is right there, crouching next to her. “If you want to go on, you’ll go on,” he assures her. “You know I won’t take that away from you. But, love…” He runs a hand through his hair. He looks so tired. “You can’t go on like this.”

“I just need a minute to dry my eyes,” comes the muffled response.

Barnum hesitates, and Phillip sees that now-familiar flash of guilt. “You’re sure?” he asks. “That’s all you need?”

“Yes.” Deng lifts her head to give him a fierce look. “If I’m afraid, Mia will be afraid. I will _not_ make her afraid.”

He’s proud of her, Phillip can see that, but he’s not sure if that’s a helpful thing right now. “Okay,” Barnum says, laying his hand on her shoulder. “Okay, you’re on. Take a minute, and then get Mia.”

Barnum is barely three steps out of the changing area when he is almost run over by Deng and Mia’s target-board. “Whoa whoa whoa,” he exclaims, backpedalling. “What are you doing? We need that!”

“Bad news,” Constantine reports, panting as he and Jeremy drag the target out of traffic. “They put out the bloodied one. It’s been sitting out there this whole time, and people have been…”

“Holy _crap._ ” Barnum shoves a hand through his hair. “Tell me they didn’t.”

“They did.”

“Why, why, _why…_ ”

“Barnum.” Lettie hurries up, her flamboyant purple dress shushing loudly with every step. “The Bunker twins want to know if you still need them to replace Deng and Mia for the opening song.”

Barnum wipes at his pale brow with a grimace. Phillip can see the glisten of sweat on his fingertips. “No, they’re good,” he says. “Don’t need ‘em. Does anyone else find it hot back here?”

He strides off, holding his arm awkwardly close to his body. “Anyone else want to bet on how long he’ll last?” Lettie asks bluntly. “Because I’m down for twenty minutes.”

“Thirty-five,” Constantine says immediately. “Insider tip: he’s been drinking feverfew tea all day.”

Jeremy, who adores Barnum with a childlike naiveté, shocks them all by piping up with, “He’ll go down after the first song.”

“I’m not taking part in this.” Phillip holds up his palms as they all turn to him. “Executive loyalty. Sorry.”

“You’re missing out then.” Lettie clucks her tongue disapprovingly at the absent ringmaster. “It’s not a matter of _if_ , just _when_.” She eyes Phillip. “You know, if you…”

“It’s almost time,” Phillip says hurriedly, taking out his pocket-watch. “Two minutes. Come on, guys, don’t make him round you up or he’ll collapse _before_ the first song.”

“Like that would be a bad thing.” Lettie lifts her skirts enough to make a dash to the ring possible. “Carlyle, you’re on Barnum duty. Go make sure he’s still standing.”

He is, in the shadows, behind the stands where no one can see. He does this before every performance: isolates himself, stalks around, preparing to leap and roar. But tonight is different. Tonight his movements are stilted, unsure. Phillip watches him until the stomping begins, and then, under the booted thunder, he says, “She didn’t come, did she?”

Barnum doesn’t seem surprised by his presence. One hand clutches the top of his cane; the other hangs limply at his side. “No,” he answers. “She said she didn’t want to be here to see me torture myself.”

They listen for a moment to the dark call of the music. “Is she angry with me?” Phillip asks at last.

“I don’t know.” For once Barnum really does sound uncertain. “If anything, I think _disappointed_ would be the word.”

Imagine how she would feel if she knew the truth. “Are _you_ disappointed?”

The black outline of Barnum’s face is sharp against the arena lights. “I’m never disappointed until the last act is over,” he says, and before Phillip can answer he’s gone.

As Phillip makes his way to the edge of the stands he can hear Barnum’s rich baritone rolling over the performers, coating the arena in his dark mystique. If he didn’t know about the injury he might not even notice that Barnum’s movements and vocals are slightly halting.

Most of the performers are onstage cavorting at Barnum’s command, but O’Malley has yet to take the stage, as a “magician” or anything else. He joins Phillip, staring at the dancers with his signature broody expression. “They’ve placed bets,” Phillip finally says. He trusts the stomping feet and musical mayhem to cover his words. “Did you get a piece of the action?”

“Sure.” O’Malley shrugs. “I’m holdin’ the money.”

Likely story. “I wasn’t going to place a bet,” Phillip says, amused despite himself. “So nice try, but no cigar.”

“Pity,” O’Malley sighs, sinking even further into the doldrums. “Sorry,” he adds as an afterthought. “Habit.”

Considering he’s a scoundrel surrounded by scoundrels, Barnum’s moral influence is actually magnificent. “It’s okay, you had to try.” Normally Phillip would keep one eye on O’Malley’s sticky fingers, but there’s nothing of value in his trousers except what God put there. If O’Malley wants to risk copping a feel, well, it won’t be the first time and it probably won’t be the last. “How’s attendance look?”

“We’re sold out for the next three weeks.” O’Malley sucks his lip. “Want me to stay? Help carry him off?”

“I think we’ll be good, thanks.” Phillip listens to the man shuffle off under the thunderous applause, gaze trained on Barnum standing amid his performers with his arms flung out. That’s got to be agonising, but if it is Barnum shows no sign of it. Any moment now he will announce the first act, will usher it with ridiculous fanfare into the spotlight, and then he’ll be free to come backstage for a brief respite.

Time will tell how brief it will be.

His morbid thoughts are interrupted by a figure flying out of the ring. He barely has time to step out of the way before Deng whips past, her cheeks and lips white under her make-up. “Deng,” Phillip tries, but before he can say anything else Mia runs sobbing toward the dressing area. “Mia!” he calls. “What’s wrong?”

“She froze,” Mia wails, and then resumes her flight, stumbling awkwardly in her heels.

Lettie arrives a bare half-second later as he’s still trying to process this. “I guess you know,” she says curtly. Most of the other performers are hot on her heels, but she takes a moment to skewer him with a glare. “Shut everyone up, will you? It’s going to be chaos back here.”

She darts off in Mia’s direction.

Instantly the other performers crowd backstage, yammering to each other in indiscreet voices just behind the stands. “Hey, hey, hey,” Phillip snaps, waving his hands. “This is not the time or the place. Everyone, go do what you have to do and save the gossip for later.”

Someone starts with, “But Deng just…”

“I know, okay? Look, most of you have acts coming up. Just go do your thing and let me deal with this.”

He half-expects a chorus of complaint but what he gets instead is reluctant compliance. He knows they’re not _really_ getting ready; they’ll be tucking themselves into corners and shadows, positioned so as to keep an eye on the situation. He doesn’t actually mind; they genuinely care, and he’s not about to pretend his authority equals Barnum’s. But it _would_ be nice to allow Deng and Mia some air and at least a semblance of privacy.

Predictably, Charles doesn’t consider himself under general orders. “This is it, Carlyle,” he says, eyes riveted on Barnum. “Last chance to make a buck.”

“I’ll pass.” Phillip’s shoulders tense as Barnum bellows out his benevolent braggadocio, making Anne and W.D.’s upcoming feats sound positively Herculean. “Come on, Barnum, don’t drag it out,” he mutters. “Get yourself back here.”

“He won’t make it. He’ll hit the barrier and go down, and ten to one he’ll land in shit. Then we’ll have to draw straws to decide who cleans him.”

“I hope I get the short straw,” a passing acrobat giggles nervously.

“Not me,” Charles shoots back. “That’s one more than I signed up for.”

“That’s because _you’re_ the short straw,” the acrobat’s partner retorts, inanely, and Phillip has to shush them again before the audience takes notice.

In the next moment Barnum appears in their midst, shrugging out of his red coat. “Don’t ask,” he says shortly in response to Phillip’s look. “Just get me a bucket.”

Immediately Phillip obeys. Barnum finishes struggling out of the coat and lays it carefully aside, then takes the bucket. A moment later there is the sickening sound of vomit hitting the metallic bottom.

“Stomach’s not good,” Barnum mumbles from the depths of the bucket as Charles rolls his eyes. “Little bit of fever, maybe…”

“That’s infection.” Charles climbs up on a chair and stretches to lay a hand on Barnum’s slick forehead. “Yeah, there it is. I’d know; that’s how my dad died.”

“Charles!” Phillip splutters.

“Hey, Swell, that’s what happens when you take a knife through the arm. What, you high-classers immune?” There’s a lot more to Charles than causticity, but it doesn’t seem eager to show itself at the moment. “Better sit it out, Barnum.”

Barnum takes a few deep breaths. “The stitches ripped,” he says at last. “Phil, check my coat for blood, would you?”

The bandage is beginning to bloom tiny red flowers. “I am not checking your coat,” Phillip says, the whole day’s anxiety and dread bubbling up in sudden anger. “Is that all you think about? You have a _hole_ through your arm.” He turns away. “For God’s sake, Barnum.”

He stalks off under the roar of the audience. At first he doesn’t think he knows where he’s going, but then he finds his footsteps have taken him toward Deng and Mia’s room. He has a good place lined up close to the circus, and he’s planning to move in next week, but he’s lived here long enough to have memorised every square inch. As he peeks around the door he sees Deng inside, furiously throwing clothes into a ratty valise.

“Hey.” Phillip pushes the door wide open. “What are you doing?”

“Leaving.” Tears have made tracks through her makeup, but they are proud and furious. “I will _never_ throw a knife again.”

Coming from most people that would be reassuring. “Of course you will,” Phillip objects. “Don’t be silly. What else would you do?”

Deng tosses in the last of her garments – a woefully small number – and begins wrestling with the valise straps. Phillip steps forward and lays his hand on top of hers, arresting her efforts. “Stop,” she snarls. “Leave me alone!”

“I can’t.” Phillip gently but firmly twists the valise out of her hands. She retaliates with a hit to his abdomen that he thankfully manages to block. The woman’s got a punch like a striking snake. “We care about you too much for that.”

“I _froze_ , Carlyle.” Deng’s words are icy with contempt. “I am never going back in the ring.”

“ _Never_ is a long time,” Phillip says, trying to smile. She sounds like him. And now he sounds like Barnum. When did that happen? “If you leave, how do you think P.T. will feel?”

“I ruined his show.”

“That’s not what _he_ thinks.” Phillip keeps a firm grip on the valise when Deng reaches for it again. “The only reason he’s out there himself is because he doesn’t want _you_ to feel bad.”

They have a brief tug-of-war, but Phillip’s gotten very good at not letting things go. Deng eventually releases the straps. “Fine,” she growls. “What then?”

“Go to P.T. Tell him you need some time. He’ll help you get over this fear.”

“Let me tell you something, Carlyle.” Deng points at him. “I don’t have fear. _You_ have fear. Get over _your_ fear, and _then_ tell people what to do.”

He doesn’t know what stuns him more: that blow, coming out of nowhere, or the fact that the entire circus sees right through him. He knows she’s right, that’s the worst part of it. There’s not a thing he can say to defend himself. He can’t even argue that his fear is worse than hers, since he has yet to put a knife through anyone.

He says, weakly, “I’m working on it.”

Deng gives him that look. “You’re working on it,” she repeats flatly. “Barnum’s arm will drop off from infection, and you'll be an old man with grey hair, and you’ll _still_ be working on it.” She turns her back and folds herself into a cross-legged heap on the bed. “Fine, fear is better.”

Fear is not better. Fear is confining, and suffocating, and confusing, and Phillip wishes he could be free of it once and for all. He turns away, still holding the valise, and walks the halls back to where he left Barnum. The cheers and hollers of the crowd thunder against the stonework, crashing against him like he’s an island. He feels disembodied without the sound of his own footsteps, a spirit wandering on the shadowy verge of light and music.

Barnum sits on a crate against the wall, his jacket draped over his shoulders. No one but Phillip is here to see him. He cradles his bad arm, shoulders slumped, head drooping. He’s on again in about five minutes. He’s in pain. He’s nauseated. His arm is clearly beginning to infect. More than that, it's as if, when Deng froze in the ring, a large part of the fight just drained out of him.

Phillip can't stand seeing that.

The silky red-and-black costume is hanging where he left it. Phillip smooths the fabric under his shaking fingers as he stands framed by the wardrobe doors. Red is not the colour of gentlemen. It’s the colour of showmen, of prostitutes, of people who need to attract as much scandalous attention as possible. He figures out how the costume works, what goes on where, and it fits perfectly, because of _course_ it does.

He spins once or twice experimentally, to see how it will be in the ring, and it moves easily with him. The only problem he can think of is that the fabric is not particularly breathable. He’ll be sweating like a draft horse by the end of the night.

Barnum is still slumped against the wall when Phillip crouches in front of him, careful not to let his unsoiled knees touch the dirt. His hand shakes as he rests it on Barnum’s knee. The ringmaster looks up, taking in the costume. After a moment he cracks a familiar smile.

“Hey,” he rasps. “I did a good job, didn’t I?”

Phillip laughs despite himself. “Yeah, you did,” he agrees. A moment passes as his pulse thumps against Barnum’s knee. Then, with sudden anguish, he blurts, “P.T., what if I make a fool of myself?”

Now it’s Barnum’s turn to chuckle. “What if you do? It’s not the Queen’s drawing-room.”

“What if I make a fool of _you?_ ”

“Kid, people have been trying to do that for years. So far all they’ve made me is famous.” Barnum arches an eyebrow. “Go on, do your worst. I just might make president.”

For Barnum, the only bad publicity is no publicity. He doesn’t understand the stakes. Phillip takes in a few shaky breaths and blows them out, aware of the act winding up in the ring. Before he can stand Barnum reaches out and plops his top-hat down on Phillip’s head. Then he holds out his cane. “Save me a place, will you?” he asks.

Phillip nods and grips the cane with a sweaty palm, adjusting the hat with his other hand. It still feels too big, but then again it was made for Barnum’s swollen head. “I guess I’m ready, then,” he says, thinking that he definitely isn’t but there’s no time for _not ready_.

At the edge of the ring, right on the edge of his cue, he turns back. “Why did you choose me?” he asks. Somewhere, deep down inside, Barnum must have known he’d be trouble. “I’ve fought you every step of the way.”

Barnum shrugs. It's slow and lazy, as if the reason doesn’t really matter. “I thought you’d look good in red,” he deadpans.

And is there ever room to be afraid, really, when Barnum grins like that?


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Phillip is a ringmaster and the past is relentless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS CHAPTER RATED M FOR SAFETY. 'Cause it's better to be safe than sorry.  
> Writing this chapter was like punching myself repeatedly in the gut, not gonna lie. It's pretty dark and heavy, but it does explain a lot.  
> On another note...You beautiful people!! Thank you for the continued reviews and attention to this story. I can't possibly explain how much your reviews and kudos mean as I plug away at this growing monster.

It’s hot in the ring, torches blazing, bodies crowding. Trickles of sweat run under Phillip’s arms and down over his ribs. He hears his voice above the noise, but it’s distant, another man’s enthusiasm. All eyes are on him.

“You’re doing great,” Lettie whispers from his left as the troupe dances. He breathes in the words like fresh air, because it’s been a long time since he’s done anything great and even longer since anyone noticed it.

He spins, pivots, faces and lights and costumes flying past. He missteps briefly, nearly knocks over a fire-eater, but they’ve put up with enough of Barnum’s improvisation to have stellar reflexes. No one goes down.

“And now,” he hears himself say as the music tails off, “prepare to be astounded…”

_It’s his eighteenth birthday, three months after Carmina’s abrupt dismissal from the household. The party is lavish, the guestlist impeccable, and Phillip drinks copiously for the first time, glass after glass. His mother is obliviously enjoying herself, elated by the chance to show off her family, and his father…_

_His father drinks almost as much as he does._

_Rumour has it that Cora Trelaide is destined for the rich, elderly widower Ross Huntley. In the glowing candlelight she is young, pretty, her tinkling laugh like champagne bubbles. Because her eyes are so forlorn Phillip tells her jokes until he runs out of them, and then they share the silence, their loneliness akin and yet foreign._

_“Mr. Huntley doesn’t like parties,” she says at last._

_Phillip wants to say something. Something kind, reassuring, but he can think of nothing to say to a girl who will spend her youth playing house with an old man. His hand goes to his back, where the freshly healed scar stitches a grisly motif across his loins. This is what it feels like to be separate._

_Before either of them can speak again, someone approaches._

_“Pardon us, Miss Trelaide.” Theodore takes Phillip’s elbow and steers him firmly away. “One moment…”_

_They reach the safety of a secluded corner. With a brusque motion Theodore turns Phillip around. “This is not appropriate,” he says curtly. “Miss Trelaide is all but engaged.”_

_“We were just talking…”_

_“Talking leads to more. Your attentions are scandalous.”_

_The words hit Phillip like blows. He can hardly believe he’s hearing them, and yet he can’t deny the evidence of his own ears. “Scandalous?” he asks, quietly, stunned. “_ Excuse _me?”_

_“Decorum, for God’s sake, Phillip.” Theodore’s hand trembles a little on his elbow, the way it did when he and Michael lifted him up off the kitchen floor, the way it does gripping the top of his new cane. “You understand.”_

_Phillip stares, at a loss for words._

_“I will not see you disgrace this family.” With those words Theodore releases him and walks away, shoulders too straight and too tight._

_Phillip’s mouth goes dry. He is not afraid. Anger has lit a flame in him, a slow burn that crackles on the verge of a firestorm. There has never been an apology, never any indication of remorse, never a word said about that horrible night. Theodore Carlyle has simply resumed his place at the head of the table, at their mother’s side, in their church pew, and life goes on and on and on and on._

_He’s not willing to go on. Not when he can still feel the thrust of a cane in his back. Not when he can see his mother’s honour disintegrating like burnt wood into ash._

_Outside, lying by a trellis, Phillip presses his lips to the gentle slope of Cora’s chest. Already he regrets what they’ve done, a foolish thing that has nothing to do with love. But something has happened in him that is ugly and dark, and he’s succumbing to it headlong._

_“I’m sorry,” he says at last, the only thing he’s voiced since he and Cora snuck into this secluded patch of garden. “I don’t think…I don’t think that was very good for you.”_

_Cora’s fingers wind themselves into his mussed hair. The gentle song of crickets fills the emptiness. “It’s okay,” she murmurs, tears trembling in her voice. “It was fine.”_

_He can guess what she’s thinking. She will need to do something about the bloodstain on the inside of her skirts before the maid sees it, about the makeup smeared around her lips. Phillip sighs, his bare chest expanding warmly against her belly, and wonders how to fix this._

_“Cora,” he says in a low voice, “I don’t think we should do this again. You – you’re going to be married to Huntley. Your reputation…you can’t afford…”_

_A sob hitches in the fabric of her voice, and Phillip buries his face in her soft breasts. His breath billows hotly on her flesh. He wants to cry but his tears refuse the summons. It’s not merely the mediocrity of his first performance that disgusts him. It’s that part of him_ wants _the rumours to spread, to reach his father. He can’t explain what he wants from it. But this is not the man he thought he was. It’s not the man he wanted to be._

_“I’m sorry,” he murmurs again. “We shouldn’t have…I’ll…I’ll make it up to…”_

_Cora’s fingers find the puckered flesh of his scar and dip wonderingly into the seared hollow there. Phillip clamps his mouth shut. She doesn’t need empty promises. Better not to say anything than to be a liar._

Even the best audience has two or three hecklers, and tonight is no exception. “Hey, where’s Barnum?” one of them yells as Phillip introduces the juggling act. “Tired of showing his sorry ass?”

“No, I think we’re lookin’ at it,” one of his friends hollers back, and apparently that’s the witticism of the century.

“Never mind them,” Constantine whispers from where he’s continuously posing and flexing. His tattoos tic rhythmically. “Hard to be a decent human being when you’re sitting on your brain.”

From the sidelines Charles makes an obscene gesture at his own rear end. Caught between mortification and laughter, Phillip steps out of the limelight to allow the jugglers centre stage. As he does he feels the brush of a hand against his sleeve. Startled, he jerks back.

“Sorry,” whispers the young boy. He can’t be more than seven or eight. “I…” He looks down, hands twisting together nervously. “Red’s my favourite colour,” he admits shyly.

It melts him. Phillip kneels, proffering his sleeve. “It’s my favourite, too,” he whispers back. They share a fleeting grin as the little hand traces a curious pattern on the cloth. “Don’t worry, it’s a circus thing.”

_It doesn’t end with Cora. The rumours_ do _get around, but she marries Huntley anyway; the man is as old as the hills, and the theory is that he’s too deaf to hear the scandalous whispers. Phillip’s father says not a word about it. But the tension in the Carlyle house grows unbearably thick._

_It’s not long before Phillip finds another girl to lie with, and another, and then another. He gains a reputation. Girls with a flirty bent bat their eyes at him over flutes of champagne, and society fathers begin to speak to him stiffly or don’t speak to him at all. Which is fine, because as much as his newfound virility is enjoying itself, the part of him that makes him truly Phillip is dying a little every day._

_He waits for his father to break, to say he was wrong, to admit the justice of Phillip’s behaviour. He waits and waits and waits._

_One night he comes home and finds one of the servants struggling with a heavy crate. Maybe because the help are the only ones in the house he still feels connected to, he helps him carry it down to the cellar. Just as he straightens the door shuts behind him, sealing him in. “Hey,” he shouts. “Al, hey! You locked me in!”_

_He shouts and pounds at the door for a good half-hour, first unable and then unwilling to believe it. Finally he sits on the crate and hugs himself against the chill. An hour passes, then another. He finds a bottle of bourbon and downs it in short mouthfuls to keep warm. There is no window; the cellar is pitch-black, and he is tired but too uncomfortable to sleep._

_Finally, the door opens and Al re-enters with a lantern, accompanied by the massive porter Peter._

_“It’s like this, young Phillip.” Al stands remorseful and downcast as Phillip rises stiffly from the crate. “You’ve got two choices. I’m sorry to say you have to take one of them.”_

_Phillip’s fingernails dig into his palms. “You can take a beating,” Al goes on, “from Pete and me, and we’ll bring you back up safe and sound, and that’ll be the end of it. Or – we have orders – we’ll take you to a spot about half an hour’s walk, and you can foot it back here in your bares.” He looks miserable. “If I’m being honest, sir, I’m sorely hoping you’ll choose the second.”_

_It’s almost comical. The set-up, and the lighting, and the obviousness of it, is nearly enough to make him laugh. But the impulse doesn’t prevail. “I’ll take the second,” Phillip says through gritted teeth, face scorched red, “and you’ll never speak of this again.”_

_“Of course, sir.” Abashed and ashamed, Al takes up the rear as Peter leads him out. “Come along then, young master.”_

_They drop him off near the edge of the neighbourhood and drive reluctantly off, the carriage wheels rattling away into the night. Phillip walks back to the house naked, his hands tucked under his arms for warmth. When he gets there the front door is unlocked. He slips in and finds a blanket waiting for him on the entrance table. He wraps it tightly around himself and goes to the study, where his father is sitting by the fire with a tumbler of whiskey and a book._

_“Give me one good reason I shouldn’t tell her right now.” Phillip’s bruised feet sink into the depths of the Turkish carpet. “And make it fast.”_

_Slowly, Theodore looks up. Their eyes meet in a smouldering deadlock. “Because I control your inheritance and she does not,” Theodore says at last. “And because you don’t wish to see her devastated.”_

_“I didn’t ask for two, you asshole.”_

_“That’s enough. Your behaviour…”_

_“No, it’s never enough!” Spittle flies from his lips as he speaks. “You think you know how far to push me? You think you can manipulate me by my inheritance? Is that what you really think…”_

_“Phillip…”_

_“…or are we just playing chicken?”_

_Their silence is measured in heartbeats._

_“You’ll learn your place.” Theodore looks back down at his book, his lips a thin line. “You will learn, and that will be that.”_

_Phillip may have to be more discreet, it’s true. But that will not be that. Not by a long stretch. Because as afraid as he has become of his father, his father is also afraid of him._

When Phillip comes backstage after yet another number, he’s parched. Performing in a crowded ring is like dancing fully clothed in a sauna, a thing which – again – Barnum failed to mention. Barnum himself, bucket between his knees, is under assault from the tumbler Nea, who’s doing her best to administer her special healing tea-potion.

“Drink it, it’ll make you sleep,” she urges, as if sleeping through shows is something Barnum does. As he opens his mouth to protest she makes another move, and then he _has_ to drink it if he doesn’t want to wear it.

“Here.” Phillip turns to the voice at his elbow and comes face-to-face with Anne. She’s holding out a glass of water. “Can’t let your voice go all to pieces.”

He drinks it down in one go. “Thanks,” he gasps when he comes up for air. “I needed that.”

Anne rubs at her arm hesitantly, glancing at Barnum. He’s grumbling about the taste of Nea’s concoction, oblivious to their presence. “Well, you came through for him,” she says, quietly enough that he won’t hear them. “We didn’t think you would, but I guess there’s always room to be wrong.”

Phillip wishes he was an inch or two taller. In her heels Anne can look down on him a little, which wouldn’t be a problem if he wasn’t constantly looking down on himself. “He was pretty pathetic,” he deflects easily. “I mean, well…” He gestures. “ _Look_ at him.”

They smile together. “Here,” Anne says at last, reaching for the glass. “Let me take that.”

“No, please.” Phillip pulls it back, suddenly struck by the same alarm he felt with Barnum. “You’re not my…”

 _Servant_ , he was going to say. Anne looks away, but there’s a little smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “No, I’m not,” she admits. “In fact…” She raises her head and thrusts out one dainty hand, mock-imperious. “I believe it’s your _privilege_ to escort me into the ring.”

Her eyes dare him to do any less. Heart in his throat, he bows, taking her fingers lightly in his, the way a true gentleman should. If only when they enter the ring he didn’t have to let her go. If only he could go on being that gentleman, instead of taking off the costume and the enchantment all at once.

_The drinking is continual now, the only way to drown memories that bring shame instead of pleasure. His male peers admire him, he can tell, so he has to pretend he likes his life, the one-night stands or the three-week affairs that go nowhere and leave him jaded and empty._

_Sometimes he visits brothels. He thinks it’s the expenditure of Carlyle money on illicit women that affects his father more than the questionable morality, but he can’t be sure because they never talk about it. There’s no repeat of the night in the cellar. Perhaps they really_ are _playing chicken. If so, although they are each more cautious of the other, neither of them has swerved yet._

_Cora Trelaide haunts him when Huntley dies six years into their marriage. No one wants her now, even though the union should have left her in excellent social standing. The rumours from that night in the garden have not gone away. She’s like a package no one wants because it’s been opened and rifled through and put back on the shelf._

_Phillip tries to get up the courage to go and see her. But then he realises his disreputable presence would actually make things worse for her. And when he considers marrying her so she won’t be alone, something funny twists inside him. He still finds her attractive, but he’s not in love with her, and isn’t that strange? Isn’t it strange that a wreck like him would keep hoping for love?_

_The distance between himself and his family increases. His mother is bewildered and hurt by the change in him, and Phillip wishes he could explain but the truth seems out of reach after so long. What would he say anyway – that he’s done it for her? He’s done it for himself just as much, to avenge them both, to punish his father. Michael on the other hand distinguishes himself as an up-and-coming barrister, distancing himself through his career. They don’t talk like they used to. There doesn’t seem to be anything to say – or maybe there’s too much._

_Besides the drinking, the only thing that keeps Phillip going is his writing, and before long his talent is noticed. By the time he’s twenty-five his plays are being produced in some of the most prestigious theatres in the country. The scandal behind his name closes some doors but flings others wide open, and he gains the freedom to slip satire into his morality plays. He inhabits his own apartment, a small but comfortable affair that he helps pay for with his earnings. The theatre becomes a second home._

_And that’s what puts the final nail in the coffin, really. Because the theatre is where he meets Edgar Wells._

“Last number, Carlyle.” Lettie hustles past, skirts a whirl of purple. “Remember to duck.”

Phillip grimaces, adjusting his skewed cravat. The rotten-fruit ovation, though not a regular feature by any means, still graces them from time to time. He picks up Barnum’s cane and gives it an experimental twirl. He’s getting better at this. Maybe one day he’ll be able to pull off that quadruple reverse-spin that routinely sends all the children into paroxysms.

Just as he’s about to step out into the light he sees movement from the corner of his eye. He turns to see Deng in the shadows, retrieving her bag from the corner where he left it. “I’m not leaving,” she snaps at him as he opens his mouth in alarm. “You took my bag, that’s all.”

Phillip relaxes as she sits on the floor, tucking the valise against her ribs. Her tears have dried, but she still looks uncertain, not an expression a woman like her should wear. “Sorry,” he says. “I was just afraid you’d take off without anyone knowing.”

Deng rests her chin on top of the bag. “I wouldn’t leave without kissing Barnum goodbye,” she says, her voice a little muffled. “Just a little one, on the cheek, because he makes me feel tall. And I would take Mia with me.”

It’s been a long time since Phillip’s experienced such innocent affection. “I’m glad to hear you’re staying,” he says. “We need you. And it would be hard to find someone else who would let you throw knives for a living.”

Deng lays her head down on the worn fabric of the bag. She looks like a refugee stealing a few minutes in a safe corner. But in truth the combative world is only a few feet away. Barnum’s circus is deceptive like that. On the surface, it’s no more than a sanctuary for broken wings. In reality, it’s the only place to learn to fly.

_Edgar Wells._

_They meet because they are both reaching for the same glass of champagne. Phillip’s hand closes first, Edgar’s right after, and what results is two hands clasped together over a delicate flute._

_They lock gazes. Immediately Phillip forgets every word he ever learned, in English or any other language. Looking into Edgar’s eyes is like looking into a dark night with a single brilliant star. He tries to speak, tries to move, and can’t remember how to do either. So he just stands there with the inside of his hand cooling and the outside of it warming and his heart hammering like hoofbeats on a dirt road._

_As if coming out of trance, Edgar abruptly lets go. On reflex Phillip – God only knows what’s happening in his head – releases the champagne flute. The glass plummets and shatters, spraying shards and bubbly all over Phillip’s polished shoes._

_Instantly Edgar jumps in. “Forgive me,” he says, expertly steering Phillip clear of the mess. “I’m such a dolt. Honestly…can you forgive me?”_

_He’s thirty-something, old enough to have lost his boyishness but not old enough to be beyond Phillip’s experience. His eyes are so deeply brown as to be almost black, his hair a shade or two darker than sand, and he speaks with a polished lilt that may or may not owe something to the British._

_“It’s all right.” Phillip finally rediscovers his vocabulary, although he’s certainly not using it to its best effect. “That was my fault, I’m…” He nearly flatlines. “…also a dolt.”_

_Edgar laughs, just a little. It’s pure, all delight, like a potent swig of bourbon, and in that moment Phillip knows he’s not going to pretend he hasn’t fallen in love. That is, he will pretend to anyone who asks, but he will never question it to himself. He is in love with Edgar Wells, with a_ man _, and he doesn’t even know if this man is married._

_He is._

_It’s like slapping himself with his father’s hand, crossing over that line, or is it like slapping his father? But – lines be damned – until that party in the theatre’s reception room Phillip never knew this brand of intoxication. He is still interested in the plunging neckline of his play’s female star, the tiny waist and the feminine hands, but he can’t seem to move his eyes to look at them. Not while Edgar stands there impeccably groomed and tall, smiling, and what the hell is this even_ called?

_It lasts for a year and a half, and it doesn’t end well. Of course it doesn’t – which of these fatal encounters ever do? As if desperate to erase Edgar’s memory Phillip replaces him with other men, men who can’t possibly break his heart because they simply don’t care. It’s like a form of patricide – or maybe a murder-suicide. The consequences, socially and legally, of what Phillip now engages in on a regular basis are potentially dire. His father cannot even bear to name him for what he is. And if he does, if the uneasy rumours are ever confirmed, everyone and everything associated with Phillip will be jeopardised._

_He doesn’t find another Edgar, or another Cora. He settles for men who like it rough and leave him wrecked, forcing himself to pretend he likes it as much as they do. There are nights, after his latest lover has left to return to his wife and children, when Phillip curls up in a ball on the floor and cries; there are other nights when he lies there, staring blankly at the ceiling, devoid of both tears and feeling._

_He drinks without intermission, as if that will wash away the stains of too many careless hands. He turns thirty, and just like that his youth is over, like a snap of the fingers, and all he wants is a father to tell him it's not too late. He prays, God, give me a reason to stop, give me a reason to say no, and washes it down with copious mouthfuls of whiskey._

_And then, one night, he finds a reason. Or, well, it finds him._

The show is over. The crowd erupts in applause and cheers. He bows. The performers stand triumphantly around him, presented for adulation, and for one moment, he thinks, maybe it’s been worth it. Maybe it _was_ time to stop hiding. No more fear. No more façade. Just Phillip, the way he should be.

And then his eyes pan the crowd and fix on that one face, and he knows it’s useless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I was listening to Three Days Grace while writing this and their song "The High Road" just really seemed to fit the portrait I'm trying to paint of Phillip. I especially feel it resonates with his relationship with Barnum and his love for Anne. Give it a listen and let me know what you think!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end of Phillip's first show, in which Bennet is a vulture, Barnum is an idiot, and Phillip feels helpless in the face of it all.

“Mr. Carlyle.” James Gordon Bennet stands nearby waiting for him. His hands are clasped at the waist over his famous notebook. “It’s been a while.”

“Indeed, Mr. Bennet.” Phillip keeps his voice level, cordial. Most of the audience and performers have trickled away, but he has no desire to draw attention from those who remain. “I thought you had stopped coming to our shows.”

“That would be convenient, wouldn’t it.” Bennet’s small, sharp eyes stare out at him from behind their precise lenses. “No, I’ve found sending an assistant to be unsatisfactory as a means of reporting.”

“Ah.”

Bennet appraises him without blinking, as if his whole body has evolved for the task of observation. “I had heard, of course, that you had joined Barnum’s circus,” he goes on. “As a junior partner.”

“I did. Believe me, tonight's performance is an exception to the norm.”

“Really? And why would Barnum abdicate his throne on this particular evening?”

“He injured a muscle during rehearsal.” It’s true, if not comprehensive; Phillip is fairly certain Barnum would not want the world to know he was knifed by his own performer. “I’m stepping in to give him time to recover.”

“Charitable of you.”

Bennet’s voice is as dry as the Gobi Desert. Phillip clears his throat. “If that’s all, Mr. Bennet…”

“Not quite, Mr. Carlyle.” Sharp, sharp, Bennet’s gaze is sharp. “Tell me, is Mr. Barnum aware of your…what does he call it? Oddity?”

“He calls the performers that, yes.” Phillip struggles to stay calm. “And as far as Mr. Barnum is concerned, the only odd thing about me is my willingness to associate with those below my standing.”

“Strange,” Bennet deadpans. “As a conman, I assumed he was more astute than that.”

Bennet’s voice contains virtually no hint of vitriol or disgust. He is simply a reporter. “I can’t imagine what you mean,” Phillip says evenly, his heart thumping in his throat. “I _can_ assure you that everything here is perfectly above-board. If you’re hoping to report some kind of moral scandal…”

“I can only report what I see.”

“In which case your article tomorrow will be preoccupied with the jugglers.”

Finally, finally a hint of a smile. “I’m sure I can find a word or two for them,” Bennet intones, “but in all honesty I’m intrigued by other observations. I notice, for example, that you are dressed exactly like Barnum.” He taps Phillip’s sleeve with the end of his pencil. “That you perform like him. That, in many respects, you _are_ like him. All of which imply, fairly…”

Phillip’s blood has turned to ice. “As scintillating as this is,” he says, backing up a step, “the after-show clean-up is very involving. I’m afraid I’ll have to cut our conversation short.”

“Understandable.” Bennet’s eyes never leave Phillip’s face. “Until next time, sir?”

“I look forward to it.” Phillip touches the brim of Barnum’s hat. “Have a pleasant trip home, Mr. Bennet.”

“The same to you, Mr. Carlyle.” 

* * *

Lettie finds him a few minutes later behind the stands, shaking and trying to catch his breath. “What’s wrong, Carlyle?” she questions, her usual brusque tone softened by worry. “Hey, what happened?”

“Put your hand on my back, please, Lettie.” Phillip leans heavily on his knees, eyes tightly shut. “Please, touch my back. I need to know you’re there.”

She does, no questions asked. Eventually, soothed by her presence, his breathing returns to normal. 

* * *

The last of the performers have retired for the night, leaving the arena strangely quiet. Phillip goes to the back, feeling more exhausted than he has in a long time. Barnum is stretched out on a cot behind a rack of costumes, dozing beneath a heavy wool blanket. His prized red coat hangs on a hook nearby.

He cracks one eye open as Phillip approaches. “So,” he rasps, an impish grin crooking his mouth. “Am I president yet?”

“I think we’ve been spared that for the time being.” Phillip sets the top hat down next to Barnum’s elbow. One hand snakes out from under the blanket to rest on the brim. “You’re still king, however. Which I suppose makes me…”

“The dashing young prince.” Barnum’s eyelids droop, but with a valiant effort he props them open again. “Or so the crowds would say. The cheers don’t lie; you’re a hit, Mr. Carlyle.”

Phillip unbuttons his collar. He’ll tell Barnum about Bennet soon; the precise details, however, he’ll keep to himself. “I appreciate that,” he says. “I didn’t think I was going to make it.”

“Oh, you did much more than that.” Barnum blinks, trying to stay alert, and Phillip stifles a laugh. Whatever concoction Nea gave him must be potent. “Born…showman.”

It’s touching praise, despite the fact that Barnum’s probably too dazed to know what he’s saying. “Let’s get you home, P.T.” Phillip props Barnum’s cane against the cot and briefly touches a hand to the man’s brow. Cooler. A good sign, although he’s perplexed by the suddenness of the improvement. He’s not really a believer in magic potions. “Just let me change and I’ll hail us a carriage.”

“Yeah. Charity will be…” Barnum fades out for a moment, then jerks back to wakefulness. “Worried.”

“Yes, she will. Let’s not put her through that again, shall we?”

“Yeah.”

Phillip shakes his head. Why couldn’t the man be this docile three hours ago? “You’re incorrigible, Barnum,” he informs his partner, but he can’t keep the fondness out of his tone.

“That’s what they pay me for,” Barnum mumbles, and this time Phillip doesn’t hold back his laugh.

It's good, sometimes, to laugh in the face of fear.

* * *

Barnum is, officially, the world’s greatest idiot.

“You’re allergic to _what?_ ” Phillip stands in the massive Barnum bedroom, hands planted on his hips. Morning sunlight peeks through a part in the curtains, cutting a brilliant swath across Barnum’s blanket-laden form. “You put us through all that grief last night for an _allergy?_ ”

“Sorry.” Barnum sounds a little bit like a penitent child as Charity rolls her eyes elaborately in the background. “I didn’t know.”

“Just how much feverfew tea did you drink?”

“Ahhh…” Barnum grimaces into his pillow. “Thirteen…or fourteen…”

“Good _Lord_.” Phillip thrusts a hand through his hair. “How are you still alive?”

“It’s better than an infection.” Barnum sounds hopeful. “Though there’s some of that too…”

“And there won’t be any more, if I have any say in it.” Charity perches on the edge of the bed. She lays a light hand on Barnum’s back, giving Phillip a look that says _I’m only here right now because I promised I’d love him forever._ “The doctor stitched it back up, and he says it should heal well if it’s immobilised for a few days.”

“Good Lord,” Phillip says again. “P.T., we thought you were going to lose your arm.”

“I’m sorry.”

“We thought you were going to _die_.”

“Really sorry.”

Phillip glares at the dishevelled mess of Barnum’s head. “I’m never forgiving you for this, you realise that, right?”

“But I’m sick.”

That really shouldn’t work coming from a grown man. Phillip bites off a curse as Charity shakes her head lovingly. “Seriously, P.T., you can’t do things like this,” he says when he can talk decently again. “Drinking five litres of feverfew tea so you can perform through the pain is not acceptable. Allergy or no allergy.”

“I know.”

“I certainly hope you do.”

“I’m never touching feverfew again.”

“I’ll hold you to it.”

“Seriously, though.” Barnum squints into the middle distance as if a riddle is waving its hands at him. “Who’d have thought feverfew could _do_ that to a person?”

“What, you don’t think drinking that much of _anything_ would make you sick?”

“Well…”

Phillip sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. Charity’s shoulders twitch from suppressed laughter. It was a close call. They have every right to be giddy. Also, Phillip knows he’s going to have to stop the troupe from murdering Barnum. But that’s a problem for another day. “I’m going back to the circus now,” he informs his boss. “Don’t follow me. In fact, I don’t want to see you back there until Monday.”

“I could just drop in for…”

“He’s all yours,” Phillip says to Charity. “Telegraph if you need rope. We have some stuff a bull elephant couldn’t snap.”

Judging by Barnum’s expression, he wouldn’t put it past either of them.

* * *

Back at the circus, Phillip takes a seat at Barnum’s desk. Bennet’s newest article stares up at him from the newspaper page. Closing his eyes, he lowers his head onto his folded hands.

He can hear his pocket-watch ticking in his vest. For the past sixteen years, ever since his father gave him his first watch on his fourteenth birthday, the very first thing he does in the morning is wind it. No matter what the day holds, he cannot set a foot on the floor without that predictable ticking.

He listens to it now with the knowledge that, in time, everything comes full circle and bites the hand that feeds it. He’s been trying to kick his drinking habit since joining the circus, but in moments like this it comes back with animalistic ferocity and won’t let up.

He can’t get drunk. Barnum isn’t here and there are rehearsals to run, bills to pay, snobs to bait. So he lets the contractions of need cramp his body over and over again and slowly loses his mind in that incessant ticking.

“Barnum’s newest fool.” W.D.’s voice is casual, leaning as it were against the doorjamb, but his intrusion is steely. “Ain’t that the headline?”

“Did someone already tell you about it?” Phillip asks wearily, forehead still pressed against his thumbs.

A long moment passes. Then, “I _can_ read, you know.”

“I’m sorry,” Phillip says, raising his head. “I didn’t mean to assume…”

“But you did.”

True. “I guess,” Phillip hedges, settling for honesty, “it’s just that most people" _like you_ " _can’t_ read.”

W.D.’s eyes track over the office’s paper-strewn expanse. Dust motes trip lightly over sunlight as it slants through the window, and Phillip wonders what W.D. sees. Does the world outside seem as hostile to him as it does to Phillip? Less? More?

“Bennet doesn’t like you,” W.D. segues flatly, as if their first words don’t exist. “Imagine that.”

Phillip laughs a little. Is this a form of grudging parley, or is W.D. here to rub it in? “I don’t think I’m the one judging by appearances now,” he jibes gently. “Just because I come from a good family doesn’t mean I have the favour of the gentry.”

“What’d you do, then? Must’ve been bad to get Bennet talking.”

Phillip follows W.D.’s gaze out the window. For a minute their silence spirals like the airborne dust.

“You’re sweet on Anne,” W.D. says when Phillip doesn’t answer. “I see that. And I’m not gonna pretend she doesn’t have her own mind. But listen…”

“W.D.…”

“I said listen,” the man says curtly, and Phillip’s mouth abandons its words. “What you did for Barnum was good. But you can’t walk around here keeping secrets and expect people to trust you. Especially after…” He whisks away the paper, and Phillip’s folded hands bump against the desk. “This.”

“What do you think Bennet’s saying?” Phillip demands, his face flushing. “That I’m some kind of…I don’t know, murderer?”

“For all the hell _I_ know. What’s _society scandal_ mean anyway?”

Phillip rubs his thumb over the stress line between his eyes. “I’m going to make sure this doesn’t hurt the circus,” he says at last. “And I’m going to make sure it doesn’t hurt Anne.”

"Damn straight." W.D. takes a step closer, and Phillip instinctively stands. “Anne’s all I got left. She's most of what I had to begin with.”

“I care about her too. You don’t know…”

“What I know is I didn’t walk eight hundred miles with dogs on my ass for _this_.” W.D.’s not exactly shouting, but he’s close. Close enough for anyone within sixty feet to hear every word. “I don’t know why Bennet hates you so much, but whatever dirt he’s got on you, you’re not dragging Anne through it.” He slaps the paper down on the desk. “And I got fists to back that up. If you can’t even tell _Barnum_ what’s going on, then you’ve screwed yourself, Carlyle.”

He turns and stalks out of the office. Phillip looks down at his hands and realises they are clenched to the breaking point. After a struggle, he releases his pointless grip. Screwed himself? Yes, he has.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, feverfew allergy? Totally a thing. Nausea, disorientation, the usual delights...Feverfew ex machina! :D


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Barnum is Barnum...to the hilt.

“I hear you had a little run-in with W.D. the other day.” The wry tone is all too familiar. “Mind if I ask…?”

Barnum stands beside a rack of costumes, hands on hips, sleeves rolled to the elbow. It’s the first time he’s been here in a week. In truth, Phillip would be happier to see him if he’d chosen a different opening line.

“That’s a different kind of salutation.” Phillip goes for flippant and hits the mark squarely. “And unless I’m mistaken, you don’t care if I mind.”

Barnum tilts his head, a concession. “So,” he drawls as Phillip closes a trunk lid neatly on a pile of costumes, “do I need to sit you boys down for a chat, or can you handle this like grown men?”

His words are light, but his eyes hold hints of concern and warning. “We’re working it out,” Phillip confirms, careful not to engage that expression too closely. “He was just letting off a little steam, that’s all.”

Barnum’s gaze is heavy on him as he latches the trunk. “All right,” he says in a tone that concedes nothing. “As long as no one’s throwing fists. You know how I feel about black eyes and busted lips, right, Phillip?”

“I know, I know, it’s bad for business.” Phillip turns to his employer. Barnum looks more or less like himself, stance broad and demeanour careless, which is a massive improvement from the last time they met. The light bandage on his forearm is more a formality than anything. “Speaking of which, you’re looking…ready to do something stupid.”

“I did warn you.” Barnum smiles a little, but his eyes remain serious. “Can I give you a piece of advice?”

Phillip sighs. He shouldn’t have expected to get off easy. “As long as you don’t mention Bennet’s article,” he says, sitting on the trunk. “Everyone’s been torturing me about it. Charles is calling me the Singing Swell.”

“That’s a great name,” Barnum says fervently. “And I don’t see why you’re upset about that article.”

“The vitriol, maybe?”

“A little vitriol is good for business. What you have to realise about W.D.,” Barnum resumes without breaking stride, “is that he comes from a world in which everybody has at least two faces. Three, I’d say, at minimum. So when someone pretends they’re not pretending, he gets a little testy.”

“But…”

“But what? You’re _not?_ ”

There’s really no way to combat that look _._ “Am I that obvious?”

“In your own secretive way. When you’re ready, you’ll talk.” Barnum sounds confident of this. “In the meantime, though, you’re going to have to give W.D. some kind of assurance that you’re not a walking Sodom and Gomorrah. If you’re planning to make a move for Anne, that is.”

“I appreciate the advice,” Phillip says, getting to his feet a little too quickly. Barnum can’t understand how close to home his words hit. “But I’m not planning to make a move, and we should get going. Everything’s set up.”

“Lead the way.” Barnum follows him out of the costume area. “Charity’s here, by the way.”

Phillip would like to stop and formally question Barnum’s sanity, but he’s afraid he’ll get more advice if he does. “Tell me she didn’t bring the girls,” is all he says by way of concession.

“No, she insisted on leaving them at home.” Barnum hesitates, just a fraction, as they enter the arena. “And I think that’s probably for the best.”

Phillip turns to look at him, but the man is already carrying on, heading for the target-board in the centre of the ring. New marks have been painted around it in the shape of a human, little X’s to guide Deng’s aim. Phillip can see Charity sitting pensively on the bottom tier of one of the stands, her hands clasped tightly together. Lettie sits next to her. Neither looks happy.

“Charity,” he greets as he approaches their two-person huddle. “I wasn’t expecting to see you today.”

“Phineas wanted me to be here.” The tight lines of Charity’s mouth are telling. “It’s not a sign that I approve.”

Phillip glances over at Deng and Mia, who occupy one of the other stands. “He’ll be fine,” he says, wishing he believed his own words. “I know this is a little crazy, but he generally knows what he’s doing.”

“Generally.” Charity stares straight ahead as if he is invisible. “I’m sure, if this works, it will cement my faith in both my husband and his show.”

Charity is not normally caustic, but today her tone is enough to prompt a step backward.

“I think we’re ready.” Barnum raises his voice, and the conversation of the many gathered Oddities falls to a hush. “Deng, Mia, come on down.”

They obey. Deng’s face is pale, and Phillip is glad he’s not going to be the one standing in front of her blades. He has every faith in her abilities, when she doesn’t look ready to vomit. Mia on the other hand stands tall, gripping Deng’s unresponsive hand. Her faith is clear.

“Deng, you stand here.” Barnum guides her with his hands on her shoulders, and she wordlessly lets him position her. “This is your usual distance, yes?”

She looks unhappily at the target. “You’ve been practising,” Barnum prods gently.

“With wooden targets.”

“That’s good enough for me.” Barnum’s voice is soft but firm, the same voice that dismantles objections and slays fears. “I trust you. Do you trust my trust?”

Deng says nothing. “Yes or no?” Barnum pushes, his smile edged with pain. “We can stand here all day, love.”

Without a word, Deng drops neatly out of Barnum’s hands into a fluid squat. She begins to flip one of her knives skillfully between her fingers. Barnum watches the display as if mesmerised. Then, after a moment, he shakes himself.

“I appreciate your willingness to participate,” he says to Mia. “In a few minutes, if all goes well, you can take your usual place. For now, you can sit down.”

Deng looks up sharply. “What?” she enunciates, pressing the point of the dagger into the dirt with a single fingertip. “What are you doing?”

Barnum makes his way over to the target, and Deng slowly flushes an angry red. “You didn’t tell me,” she snaps. “You should have _said_ it would be you.”

“You wouldn’t have done it. And you need to.” Barnum spreads his arms against the target. “You can do this, Deng,” he says, and there’s something in his voice that Phillip believes would lead an army into certain death.

Deng stares him down, one hand fisted on her thigh, sides billowing. She’s furious, she’s livid, she’s terrified. Phillip doesn’t know how Barnum can stand there so calmly, arms spread as if for crucifixion, while his knife-thrower looks ready to literally skewer him.

Charity’s hand curls over Lettie’s, white-knuckled and ridged.

Slowly, Deng stands. She twirls the knife in her hands, an unconscious motion, and Barnum’s cheek tics. She reaches back, the tip of the knife glinting, and the whole arena holds its breath.

The blade sinks into the target with a _thud_. Barnum jerks briefly, his face paling, and then fixes a smile in place. “Not bad,” he praises, as if Deng has not just missed the painted mark by a full six inches. “Try again.”

She’s as ashen as he is. She draws the knife at her left hip, and Charity silently turns her face into Lettie’s shoulder. Deng tenses, her arm stretched back. There is that awful moment before all the horrible possibilities.

This time the knife thumps home a bare two inches from Barnum’s head. The mark mocks them from half a palm’s width away. A bead of sweat expends itself along Barnum’s temple. He licks his smiling lips. Deng is a nervous wreck, wiping her palms compulsively on her leotard, flexing her fingers, clicking her teeth. Mia’s right leg jogs up and down, back and forth. Charity turns her face to her husband, but her cheek is still pressed to Lettie’s shoulder, and every Oddity is silent.

“Again.” Barnum’s hoarse voice cuts through the air. “Again.”

Deng shakes her head like a dog ridding itself of water. “Again,” Barnum commands. “You’re letting what happened get into your head. You can see the mark. You can see me. You can see where the knife needs to go.”

Deng draws her third knife. Her hands are shaking. Barnum’s eyes track her every movement, analysing, scrutinising. A breath works its way out of him like a troubled sigh. A fist clenches around Phillip’s gut. He needs to say something. Something…anything, to make this better…

“Wait.” He speaks before his own thoughts register. “Deng, I need a word.”

Barnum stares him down as he approaches, clearly displeased. “I’m going to assume this is worth breaking her concentration for,” he says lowly.

“Do you remember what she said that night?” Phillip asks, ignoring the rebuke.

“What night?”

“ _That_ night," Phillip says, not having any of it. "She said she would perform even though she was afraid, because she didn’t want to make _Mia_ afraid.”

“And?” Barnum pushes.

Phillip gestures.

Barnum's voice lowers to a growl. “I’m not afraid, Phillip.”

“It’s perfectly natural. You took a knife to the arm...”

“Don't say it…”

“...and now you're knife-shy.”

“I’m _not_ afraid,” Barnum says quietly, but his tone is edgy.

“Okay,” Phillip says, shrugging. “Now look me in the eye and say it.”

A battalion of heartbeats pass. Finally Barnum says, “I’m helping Deng face her fear.”

“Yes, you are. And she’s helping you face yours, whether you admit it or not.” Phillip pockets his hands. _Nonthreatening_ seems like the best tactic right now. “Would you be willing to try something?”

Barnum eyes him. “Like what?”

“Turn your back.”

“Why?”

Stubborn man. “Because you need to prove to both of you that you expect her to succeed. And you can’t do that if you’re watching every move she makes.”

“Phillip…”

“Do you trust her? Or not?” Phillip juts out his chin in challenge. “How many faces do _you_ have, Barnum?”

For hand’s-breadth of time the ringmaster says nothing. Then, painfully, a grin curls around one corner of his mouth. “It’s _you_ I have to keep an eye on,” he shoots back, and his unwilling approbation warms Phillip to the bone. “Fine, kid, you win. We’ll do it your way.” Over his shoulder, he calls, “Deng, when you’re ready, let loose.”

With a quick exhale, he faces the target.

Deng grips her knife as Phillip steps well out of the way. She shifts her weight from one foot to the other. She waits. They all wait.

Slowly, she extends both hands. The flat of the knife rests flush against her palm. Her fingertips point unerringly to the marked spot above Barnum’s bandage. “Barnum?” she calls. “Yes or no?”

The moment stretches between them like a suspension bridge. “Yes,” Barnum says. “Always yes.”

The knife flicks like a flash of light, silent and precise, deadly and exquisite. It thuds, buried to the hilt, dead-centre in the mark. Deng’s arm remains hyperextended, fingers splayed, reaching in vain, muscles knotted and hard. No one moves. No one breathes.

After a span of seconds, she reaches for another knife.

It thumps home, piercing the red eye of the X. Then a third. Then a fourth. All this in the span of about five seconds. As if possessed, Deng empties her sheaths in rapid throws that are each lost in the space of a blink. _Thud, thud, thud,_ each blade impaling its target to inscribe a human shape.

When the last knife sinks into wood, there is a moment of silence. Then Barnum steps back from the target to stand, hands in his pockets, gazing at the outline of his own body. He turns to Deng, and pride glints in his eyes like the stab of a sunrise ray.

“Well done,” he says quietly. "Always."

Charity is the first to stand in the silence, clapping fervently.

The arena resounds with thunderous applause. Deng whirls to Mia and hugs her with a fierce scream, forgetting herself for one blissful moment. Barnum turns to Charity, exhausted but happy, and sinks into her embrace. “No more unnecessary risks,” Phillip hears her say like a sigh against his shoulder. “You made your point, now look after yourself, please, Phineas? Listen to the people who love you.”

Barnum laugh lowly. “I think I will, for a while,” he says. He meets Phillip’s eyes over her shoulder. “I’m getting as much good advice as I give these days.”

 _Well done_ , he mouths to his apprentice.

 _Well done yourself_ , Phillip mouths back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is...NOT the end! No indeed, Phillip is not getting off that easily, and neither are Barnum and Co. However, I DO want to extend a special heartfelt thank-you for all of your amazing comments and support to this point. This story has evolved far past my original vision, and I'm so glad you're taking this journey with me.
> 
> I will be changing some of the tags to reflect the new elements that are being introduced; also, I will probably be bumping up the official rating to M, because reasons to be seen.
> 
> I am now dividing this story into Part One (everything to this point) and Part Two (everything to come). Because it has just gotten that out of hand.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Phillip runs into trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Rape/Non-con and Violence ahead. Don't read if this triggers you.
> 
> Also, beginning of Part Two.

**PART TWO**

  
It’s chaos.

“Girls!” Barnum is exasperated, and Phillip has to fight back a snicker. The man doesn’t often lose his cool, to the point that witnessing it has become a circus rite of passage. “ _And_ Charles. One more time and you’re all going to your room.”

Charles gives him a massive shit-eating grin. “My room’s back at the circus,” he taunts.

“Yeah, and you will _walk_ there if you don’t behave.” Barnum turns back to the papers between them. “This is why I stopped at two,” he mutters as Charles and the girls scamper out of the room. It’s not clear what they’re playing, but it’s loud and involves projectiles.

“That’s a load, P.T.” Phillip marks up one of the papers from his cross-legged position on the carpet. “You adore all your lunatic circus offspring. You’re only cranky because you hate doing the finances.”

“Well, I do.” Barnum rubs at a figure with the back end of his pencil. His spectacles have slipped endearingly down to the end of his nose. “What did I do before you came along?”

“God willing I’ll never find out.” Phillip makes two heavy dashes under a figure. Ostensibly he brought Charles along tonight because his opinion is useful on this particular subject; realistically, Charles is here to play and be mothered. “There. That’s what it will cost you.”

Barnum wrinkles his nose. “I thought you’d think that,” Phillip says with satisfaction.

“It’s important, Phil.”

“Look, I know you value your performers’ dignity, but these kind of upgrades cost an arm and a leg.” Phillip lowers his voice on the off chance Charles can hear him over the playful tumult. “Most of these people have never seen indoor plumbing. They’re counting their blessings as it is. No one’s complaining.”

“Yeah, but…” Barnum shuffles the papers, disappointment written across his face. “All right, I’ll come back to it in a couple of months. Maybe the figures will have changed by then.”

Phillip knows they won’t, but he takes what he can get. “Is there anything else we need to look at?” he asks.

“Not tonight.” Barnum stretches, and his back cracks loudly. “How can you sit like that for so long? I wouldn’t have any knees left.”

Charles comes thundering back through the room, trailed by Caroline and Helen. “I know, I know,” he yells at Barnum, “I’m walking back. Relax, we’re leaving.”

Phillip waits until the gaggle has exited the room again. Then he says, “You know you’re going to have to adopt him.”

Barnum clacks the papers into alignment. “Maybe in my next life," he says.

“In your next life you’re going to be a peacock.”

“And Charles will be a badger.”

“In which case my point stands,” Phillip laughs. “You can’t adopt an entirely different species.”

“So says the socialite sitting in the showman’s parlour,” Barnum teases, and Phillip can’t help grinning self-consciously.

He unfolds himself and stands, slipping his manuscript out from under the financial records. It’s the draft of a new play, the first he’s attempted since joining the circus. He hasn’t told anyone what he’s working on. That doesn’t mean Barnum hasn’t been constantly peeking over his shoulder trying to find out. “No,” he says as Barnum opens his mouth. “You may not. For the fifth time today.”

Barnum’s eyes crinkle in amusement. “You can’t hide it forever,” he says as Phillip claims the nearest armchair, tucking his legs under him. “I’m a master of discovery.”

“And yet it remains undiscovered.” Phillip readjusts his own spectacles on the bridge of his nose. “But feel free to keep banging your head against the same wall.”

Barnum pulls out a novel from under his leg. This is the part of these evenings Phillip treasures most: the quiet, familial hum, the rare, irreplaceable moments of domestic contentment. “I never did ask,” Barnum observes, finding his page. “Why do _you_ need glasses? You don’t wear them much.”

“I’m slightly far-sighted.” Phillip scribbles with his fountain pen to get the ink flowing. “I spent my childhood holding books at arm’s length. You?”

“I’m slightly over forty.” Barnum glances wryly at him over the rims of his glasses. “Speak of this to no one.”

Phillip chuckles, and they lapse into companionable silence.

It doesn’t last long. “What’s this, the old man’s convention?” Charles re-enters the room astride Caroline, who is positively aglow as his steed. “Hell, Barnum, I knew that cane wasn’t just for show.”

“No, I also use it on performers who curse in front of my daughters.” Barnum gives him that look again, but with the finances behind him it’s considerably tempered. “Or I could ask Charity where she put my old birch switch.”

“You don’t have a birch switch,” Helen giggles, prodding her sister along with the end of a feather duster. “You never did.”

“I knew it,” Phillip grins. “Barnum, you softie.”

“ _You_ try switching these two,” Barnum grumbles. “You’d need a heart of stone.”

“What’s your preferred method, then?” Phillip pitches to him easily. “Lock them up in a tower? Make them spin straw into gold?”

“No, I usually just…” With a thump Barnum drops to the floor, and his daughters squeal and scatter. Phillip laughs as Barnum pursues his offspring around the room on hands and knees, abruptly unseating Charles.

No one sees Charity enter until she’s right next to them. “Phin, hang on.” Barnum pauses to look up, and Charity plucks the spectacles neatly off his face. “All right, as you were.”

“A minute ago we were reading,” Phillip says as Charity folds herself into Barnum’s spot on the couch. “What happened?”

“This is the main benefit of having a massive house.” Charity watches her family frolic. “Nobody has to be particularly careful.”

The carelessness must be catching, because as Barnum crawls by Phillip lifts his papers and swats him on top of his head. The utterly amazed look Barnum gives him is both satisfying and embarrassing, and Phillip quickly ducks his head again.

“Oh no you don’t.” Barnum snatches the manuscript away before Phillip can react. “Not after that.”

“P.T….!”

“ _The Last Foray,_ a new play by Phillip Carlyle,” Barnum reads aloud. “Sounds good. May I?”

Phillip rises as Barnum begins to read. “No, you may _not_. Give it back, it’s not finished yet.”

“ _Darling, if we were in Mexico, they would call this a siesta_.” Barnum gets to his feet, backing away as his daughters break out in knowing giggles. “Hey, this is great stuff.”

Phillip begins to pursue him around the room, which is not made easy by Barnum’s long-legged energy. “Who’s Claudette? Is she really French?” Barnum flips through the pages. “And does she get her man?”

“P.T.” Phillip tries to sound serious. “Come on, I’m not joking.”

“A kiss in the first act.” Barnum’s tone is mock-scandalised. “Phillip, you shock me.”

“You’re an a…” Phillip bites back the invective for the sake of the young ears in the room. “Give it back.”

Barnum’s chuckle reverberates in the air. Phillip lunges at Barnum, impacting with a grunt, and the ringmaster staggers back with an infectious laugh. “Boys,” Charity calls as they go down, but her eyes are dancing, “watch the furniture!”

“ _Don’t try swimming in a maelstrom, that’s the wrong instinct._ ” Barnum chokes out the lines between bouts of laughter, warding off Phillip with one elbow. “ _If I were you, I’d embrace drowning._ ”

“P.T., I swear to…!”

“ _And if_ I _were you…_ ”

Phillip tries to pin him. Barnum gets him in a headlock and without further ado sits on him. Phillip gasps as the man’s weight settles. “Holy _Mother_ …are your bones made of metal?” he yelps. “Get off!”

“You’re squashing Phillip!” Helen’s concern would sound more genuine if she wasn’t clapping with glee. She and Caroline rush their father, which results in a jostling three-way hug and more squashing. Charles joins them and, horror of horror, drops onto Phillip’s rump.

Barnum clears his throat dramatically. “Have a listen,” he says to his audience, and begins to chant the lines aloud in his best stentorian voice. At the same time he playfully holds Phillip’s face against the floor. For a moment Phillip almost thinks he hears _pride_ in Barnum’s clownish performance. A fleeting impulse to lie there and soak it in grips him. Still, he’s pretty sure those black dots popping in his vision are not benign. “P.T., get off,” he growls, “or I’m going to pass out.”

“Sure?”

“Charity, help,” Phillip appeals, and Barnum instantly complies, grinning like a loon.

Phillip abruptly rises, shedding Charles like an unwanted coat, and snatches back the script. “What’s the matter with you?” he grumbles, trying unsuccessfully to look dour. “We’re grown men.”

“Some of us are a little more grown than others.” Barnum chucks him lightly on the side of his head.

“Why are _you_ laughing?” Phillip shoots at Charles, who is cackling like a witch. “You’re half my height!”

“Yeah, but I know how to rock it.”

As Charles and the girls return to their game and Barnum rights his waistcoat, Phillip huffily works to bring the script pages back into order. “I meant what I said, by the way.” Barnum points at the manuscript, oddly serious. “That’s great stuff.”

Phillip pauses. “Yeah?” he asks, not sure he’s ready to believe it. “It’s…not my normal fare.”

“I know.” Barnum smiles. “That’s what makes it great.”

Phillip winces. He forgot Barnum’s been to see one of his productions. “That was…an angry play,” he says, feeling like he has to offer an excuse. “I was…lashing out.”

“I know,” Barnum says again. “It was still good. But this – this is you. So, by definition, better than good.”

The warm glow in his chest has not abated when the evening finally draws to a close. 

* * *

Barnum sees them to the door. Charity has sent Charles away with enough cookies to stave off hunger for the next three months. Caroline and Helen, on the other hand, have generously stocked him with crayon drawings of his horse. “You could stay the night,” Barnum suggests as they don coats and hats. “We have lots of room.”

“Rub it in,” Charles grumbles, winding his scarf around his neck.

“He means thank you.” Phillip gives Charles’ ankle a little kick, and Charles kicks him right back. “And so do I.”

“But…” Barnum probes, smiling.

“I have something to prepare for tomorrow,” Phillip admits. “It’s at home.”

“You, Tom?”

“I got my own place now, Dad.” Charles and Barnum share a _look_ , and Phillip remembers all over again that Charles was Barnum’s first hire – or first rescue. “Stay outta my space.”

Barnum holds up his hands. “All right, all right,” he says, but his exasperation is undergirded by amusement. “I’ll back off.”

“That’ll be the day.” Charles nods at Phillip. “Come on, Swell, we don’t wanna miss the train.”

“Take care.” Barnum follows them onto the porch, directing Phillip’s attention to Charles with a surreptitious head tilt. “You know how the streets can be at this hour.”

 _For people like him_ goes unspoken. “Don’t worry, P.T.” Phillip lifts a hand in farewell. “We’ll be careful.”

Barnum lifts his own hand in response, and they make their way down the lane. 

* * *

Charles and a late train ride combine remarkably well. He’s caustic, funny, rude at all the right moments, and just when Phillip’s energy begins to wane he falls asleep against the window.

As Charles’ snores fill the compartment Phillip watches the trees flick past. His dim reflection hovers before him like a ghost in the darkness. A little smile has lodged in the corners of his mouth. It’s not in hiding, it’s content there. He hasn’t seen that expression in a long time. He’s never seen it on his thirty-year-old self.

The train creeps to a halt at the station. Phillip reaches across the table and nudges Charles’ shoulder. “Wake up, bud,” he says. “We’re here.”

Charles blinks awake. “’Bout time,” he grumbles, swinging his short legs over to the edge of the seat. “Almost fell asleep.”

Phillip slings his coat over his arm and follows Charles toward the exit. It was hot in the train, and the cool night air sends pleasant prickles over his skin. They hop lightly down to the platform and find themselves amid the sparse nighttime movement. Elbowing past a pair of portly gentlemen, Phillip flags down a nearby buggy. Charles cracks a wide yawn as they settle in.

“The Barnum Circus, please,” Phillip instructs the cabbie.

“Your place comes first.” Charles kicks Phillip’s ankle, again, and Phillip bites back a yelp. Good God, the man has sharp heels. “Give him your address.”

“I don’t think…”

“I’m twenty-two. I can make it back on my own.” Charles makes another kicking motion, and to forestall the pain Phillip hurriedly barks out his address. The cabbie complies without a word, clearly not interested in exploring the dynamics of his strange fare.

“Charles.” Phillip speaks in a low voice as they pass through the lamplit streets. “I didn’t mean to treat you like a…well, you know.”

“Forget it.”

“No, really, I shouldn’t have presumed. It’s just…this isn’t a great time of night to stand out, and P.T. worries.”

“I said forget it.” Charles tugs at the fabric of Phillip’s coat. “If you want to make it up to me, give me some of this. It’s damn cold.”

Phillip smiles and spreads his long coat over both of them, grateful now for the added heat of Charles’ small body. It has a soporific effect. By the time they reach Phillip’s building his chin is butting against his chest. Charles is now surprisingly alert, and wastes no time smirking at his companion. “What are you, sixty?” he jibes gleefully. “Past your bedtime, old man?”

“Who was sawing wood on the train earlier?” Phillip presses their combined fare into the cabbie’s hand. “And here I was going to invite you in to see my place. Pity you’re a twit.”

Instantly Charles perks up. Despite his chronic need to appear disinterested in life, he’s insatiably curious. “You still could,” he says. “I mean, if this guy…” He jerks his head at the cabbie. “…wants to wait.”

Phillip adds a few coins to the pile. The cabbie promptly leans back in his seat and pulls his cap over his eyes. “There. Coming or not?”

Charles immediately jumps up, manoeuvring his way down from the buggy with Phillip’s help. With a dignified flourish he wraps Phillip’s coat tightly around himself, the tails dragging on the ground like a royal train. “Let’s make this quick,” he says. “I got things to do.”

At some point they’re all going to have to stop indulging Charles, but it’s not going to be tonight. Phillip leads the way up the pathway to his building, fishing for his key. He can hear the snort of the horses just out of sight down the street, the shush of wind past the stone walls. Something stirs nearby that doesn’t sound like the wind, and he stops to listen.

Charles starts to speak. "Shh," Phillip cautions, holding out his hand. "Listen. Hear that?"

But it's too late. The stealthy footsteps have already drawn close, too close for a tactical withdrawal. He remains calm as the three men surround them, as silent and coordinated as wolves. He knows what this is. He’s been expecting it. He just wasn’t expecting it tonight. “Good evening, gentlemen.” He keeps his voice level. “What can I do for you?”

“Good evening, Mr. Carlyle.” The voice is unfamiliar. That’s to be expected. The household servants won’t do for this level of ‘correction.’ “Step over here to your left, please, and don’t make noise.”

“I would, sir, but as you can see I have company.” Phillip gestures to Charles, his smooth motion belying the jerky thudding of his heart. “Can this possibly be postponed to another day?”

“I’m afraid not.” The man is equally courteous, though his accent is unrefined in comparison. “Meet our demands and I promise your companion won’t come to harm. We’ll restrain him, no worse.”

Phillip hesitates, looking down at Charles. The shorter man reaches up and grasps Phillip’s fingers. Neither of them is a fighter, for all that Charles has an Achilles’ spirit. The anger in his eyes is steadfast, though, and it gives Phillip the resolve he needs.

“Of course.” He moves compliantly with the human circle out of the light. “As you wish.”

They corral him into the back corner of the alley where the streetlight doesn’t fall, Charles still wearing his coat-mantle. Flame flares, and then a lantern casts its dim beam over Phillip’s face. He squints, raising a hand to ward it off, and in that flash of light he sees the glint of an emblemed cane.

“I assume Theodore Carlyle sent you.” Maybe his priorities are wrong, but Phillip’s thoughts flick to the manuscript tucked into his jacket. It is the product of over two months’ work, and he hopes fervently that his only copy will not be damaged. “If so, is he open to negotiation?”

Bennet’s damning article was published ten days ago now, but apparently that doesn’t mean anyone was safe. “Unfortunately, no.” The man lowers the cane. “We have a reputation for reliability. You understand?”

Phillip breathes slowly in and out, nodding silently. He would give anything to be back at Barnum’s house. He doesn’t even consider shouting for help. If he resists they will find him again later, and that will be infinitely worse. As long as Charles is unharmed…

“Very well,” he forces out. “Tell me what you want.”

“Remove your jacket and waistcoat.” The other two men stand behind their leader, a silent but threatening backdrop. “Then stand with your hands on the back wall.”

Phillip tries to twist his fingers free and finds Charles’ grip surprisingly resilient. “Charles, let go,” he says softly. “It’s okay, I’ll be fine.”

Charles stares balefully at the thugs, his nails digging painfully into Phillip’s palm. “Charles.” Phillip keeps his tone calm, although his limbs are trembling. “You have to let go.”

“Why?” Charles’ voice holds no fear, only the lashing bitterness of a lifetime’s worth of anger. “You ain’t nothing but a good kid. Why should they get you?”

Phillip drops into a crouch. Charles turns to him, bottom lip jutted fiercely. “I’m a little more than that,” Phillip murmurs, gently extricating his hand. He turns up the collar of his coat around Charles’ ears to hide the shake in his hands. “This won’t take long. I promise.”

Charles holds his gaze as one of the men pulls him back. “You want me to fight, you say the word,” he says. “I’m a general, remember?”

Phillip laughs, willing away the pressure at the back of his eyes. “I know,” he says. “Best one in America.”

He stands and shrugs out of his jacket, then follows it with his waistcoat. Carefully he folds them both and places them on a clean patch of ground. Then he presses his palms against the cold wall. His breaths are stuttering.

A pair of hands reaches around from behind him. “Open your mouth,” the voice orders. He complies. A thick strip of cloth is pulled tightly between his teeth. As he bites down it is knotted behind his head, effectively muffling him.

“Stay where you are,” the voice instructs. “Both of you.”

Phillip lowers his head between his arms. Every muscle is tensed to the cramping point. He hears something unravelling behind him, dragging on the ground. Precious painless seconds tick by.

The doubled rope hits the tender flesh of his back without warning. It punches more than it flays, and Phillip barks piteously into the cloth. It’s a good thing Barnum is performing again. Dancing will be out of the question for a long time. He grips the stone as the rope impacts again and again, setting off explosions of agony with every strike. He counts in his head. Sixty-four seconds. Thirty strikes.

“Now turn around.” Trembling violently, Phillip does so, crossing his arms over his hips. “Arms to the side.” Phillip’s teeth dig into the gag as he spreads his arms, much as Barnum did against the target. He imagines his mentor’s voice, teasing and authoritative, reciting, _If I were you, I’d embrace drowning_.

As the man crooks his arm back, Charles utters a single, searing blasphemy. Phillip spasms as the rope punches his abdomen, convulsing as each breath is driven brutally from his lungs. _I’m sorry_ , he wants to scream, but no one is accepting apologies. _I’m sorry I loved, I’m sorry I hated, I’m sorry for my whole goddamn life._

His legs give way at the twenty-ninth stroke and he slides into the smack of rope across his jaw. He hears a curse from the leader and knows it wasn’t intentional; had it caught him full-force it would have broken his jaw. As it is, the glancing blow is enough to leave behind a ferocious sting, and worse come morning.

He sits there against the wall, nostrils flaring, eyes swollen with tears. A thin line of spittle runs down his neck from the saturated gag. He’s not sure if he will be able to stand. He's not sure he even wants to try.

“On your hands and knees.” A boot prods his ribs, not roughly, just an incentive to move. “And undo your pants.”

He tries his best to comply, hands trembling on the button. He can’t get it undone. The man sees this and motions for one of his cohorts. Burly fingers undo the button and help him slide his pants over his hips. He collapses forward, and hands brace him just in time to keep him from smashing his face on the ground.

“This is the cane, not me.” The now-familiar voice hovers just behind him. “Don’t struggle.”

Phillip’s fingernails dig at the ground until they leak blood, every muscle in his body contracted into a hard, painful knot. It’s not that this is such a foreign sensation, given his past, though it’s been a while now. But flesh is pliant and the cane is not, and nothing in him has consented to this.

The hands on his shoulders prevent him from rocking forward and away, so he settles for grinding his teeth on the gag. The rhythm burns but it’s even, not cruel, a measured brutality. No one’s laughing, no one’s jeering. He can hear the frantic thump of his heart. He can hear the sound of his own violation.

At last the cane stills. Slowly, aided by a bracing hand on his scarred back, it leaves him. He can feel a copious runnel of blood trickling down the inside of one thigh. “Now,” the voice says again, fingers gripping his hip, “this not the cane.”

Phillip lurches forward at the hot spike of pressure, a sob tangling in the gag. A hand grips the back of his neck. He grabs at the shirt of the man in front of him to anchor himself. As the ancient rhythm rocks him his palm scrapes painfully against the dirt. His rapist’s thrusts are harsh and punitive, threatening to shove him over, to drive him into the ground. Where his father clearly thinks he belongs.

And that raises a strange question, one that makes itself heard over the gasps and grunts. Was this just another business deal, conducted over fine brandy? Was it an insinuation at the back door, distasteful and hurried, while his mother sewed in the parlour? Or was it crude and crass, no time for misunderstanding, _bugger him, here’s my cane, have a little fun?_

Two things occur to him: one, none of that would surprise him in the least. And two, none of it would make any difference.

From behind him there is a sharp gasp. The hand on his neck tightens. And then, after a few seconds, it releases.

Two hands draw his pants back up over his hips and secure the button. Then the gag is unknotted. He spits it out, coughing and gasping. He looks up at the sound of pages fluttering to the ground. The lead man is holding his jacket aloft, staring down at the manuscript on the ground. He reaches for it, the bloodied cane still in his hand.

“Please.” Phillip’s voice is hoarse as the man studies the pages with a curious expression. “Don’t.”

“What’s this?”

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s a play.”

Phillip nods, unsure what else to do. The man places the manuscript back on the ground. Then he carefully grinds at it with his boot. The smear of words and dirt is just visible in the lantern beam. The pages rip and tear, over and over until nothing is intact.

Three pairs of footsteps recede into the night. If not for the pain, he would swear they were never there.

The torn pieces of paper rasp under his palm like cracked and fallen leaves, dead and unwanted. Charles’ footsteps approach and stop just in front of him, framed by the coat. Phillip lowers his head. He is quivering like a spent racehorse. He still doesn't know how he's going to stand.

“Are you hurt?” His voice is rough. “They didn’t…did they…”

“Shut up, Carlyle.” The words are soft, like a mother’s hand through his hair, like a shushing voice in the dark. “Come on, pick yourself up. You don’t belong down there.”

Phillip looks up. Charles holds out his small palm, brows deeply furrowed, eyes shimmering. Uncertainly Phillip takes the hand. It’s as steady and warm as his is tremulous and cold. And somehow he finds his feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew. Okay. Got through that. E-hugs for anyone who needs them. :( Next chapter!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Phillip doesn't get to take the easy way out.

He has two choices, according to Charles.

He can come back to the circus, and they can clean him up. He can get drunk and sleep it off, and in the morning Barnum will help them choose a suitably violent course of action.

Or.

He can go up to his flat and lock himself in. The troupe will break down the door and care for him by force. Barnum will be informed, and further consequences will follow, possibly round-the-clock babysitting.

When Charles presents it that way, Phillip’s two options are looking suspiciously like one.

“The Barnum Circus, please.” Phillip stands with his torn play in his hands, his voice wavering. Charles stands beside him like a chaperone, one sleeve pinched firmly between his fingers.

The cabbie takes one look at Phillip and apparently sees all he needs to see. “Don’t get blood on my seat,” is all he says before facing front.

Phillip perches on his folded coat, cringing at the painful pressure. Charles sits close beside him, and he doesn’t let go of his sleeve, as if Phillip might float away on the wind.

“Your father’s an asshole, huh?” he says after a few seconds. The buggy jolts forward through the uneasy lamplight. “Grade A.”

Phillip keeps his eyes straight ahead. If he doesn’t look at anyone, he doesn’t have to see himself reflected back. “I guess he is,” he says. “That’s what I told him, once.”

Charles nods. “Yeah,” he says. “Mine was too.”

The rest of the ride passes in silence. 

* * *

Nora Hildebrant’s personality works exactly the reverse of Lettie’s. Unlike the bearded lady, the safer the tattooed woman feels the less brash she becomes. It serves her surprisingly well; it could be too easy to be intimidated by her wild beauty and fierce costumes, and that would be a shame.

“I like that one.” Anne points at one of Nora’s sketches, a snapdragon. They are sitting cross-legged on Lettie’s bed, nightgowned, with their hair falling around their shoulders. Darkness has long fallen, but circus folk keep ungodly hours, and they are far from sleep.

“You don’t like it just ‘cause it’s the smallest, do you?” Lettie sounds dubious. “Seems like a bad way to choose a tattoo.”

“I’m not afraid of the pain, Lutz.” Anne’s fingers trail over the pretty design. “I just like the way it looks.”

“It’s an interesting choice.” Nora looks at her through her long lashes, tinted with a hint of the vixen. “Snapdragons represent fascination and deception.”

It takes a moment of Nora’s dramatic stare and Lettie’s sniggers for Anne to understand. “Oh, God,” she bursts out, face flaming. “ _Don’t_.”

“Just tattoo _Carlyle_ on her butt, Nora. Less pain and ink.” Lettie cackles as Anne throws a pillow at her. “Simmer down, honey, if you can’t face the truth then don’t bat your pretty browns.”

“I don’t do that.”

“You kidding me? Every time he’s around I’m sweeping up eyelashes.” Lettie throws the pillow back. “Nothing wrong with it. He looks at you like you’re gold. You’re safe.”

Safe. Anne sighs, propping her chin on her hand. When has she ever had a good feel for that? “It wouldn’t work,” she says. “I’m not gold, I’m brown.”

“You could be green, for all he cares.” Lettie taps the drawing. “I like it too. Arm, back, thigh…?”

“I was thinking foot.” Anne rubs the skin over her right arch. She’s been told her feet are pretty, and she likes the thought of the snapdragon curling neatly over her ankle. “Maybe here?”

“Incredibly painful. Good choice.” Nora collects her drawings. “When?”

The words _incredibly painful_ are still circling in Anne’s mind when Nala Damajanti pokes her head in. It’s always odd to see her without her snakes, the same way they take for granted her eyebrows. “Carlyle’s back,” she informs them. “Looks like he’s in trouble.”

Before anyone else can move Anne is off the bed. “Where?” she demands, and Nala points the way. Lettie calls her name but she’s long gone, nightgown fluttering like wings.

One of the bathroom doors is slightly ajar, light spilling out, and she pushes it open without thinking. Phillip startles, nearly upsetting a basin of water. He stares at her with cervine panic. She gets a flash of a muscle-ridged body, a smooth back blushing bruises, a crimson-smeared buttock, and then W.D. is suddenly between them.

“What the hell, Anne,” he hisses, “he’s naked.”

He closes the door in her face and she collapses against the wall, a hand over her mouth. This isn’t the first man she’s seen like this – it’s one of many awful things that used to happen in slave fields and back-40 sheds – but this is different, this is Phillip, and she sinks down, shaking.

She wants to dissolve at the tender hurt she saw in his eyes, the hurt that comes with no explanation. _Deception and fascination_ , she thinks, and with a frightening surge of possessiveness yearns to take him in her arms and kiss his defenses away. 

* * *

If there was one way this night could get worse, this would be it.

Phillip still shakes from Anne’s unexpected intrusion as he sponges blood from his thighs. He’s well aware that he’s being carefully _not_ watched by her older brother. Charles, who is the current guardian of his dismembered play, has withdrawn to piece it back together. W.D.…

W.D. holds the flask of whiskey.

Phillip reaches out blindly and the flask meets his hand midair. He swigs with his eyes closed before handing it back. He drops the sponge back in the bloody water and focuses on positioning a clean strip of cloth in his underwear.

“It’s gonna bleed for a while.” W.D. speaks with quiet authority, handing him a pair of trousers. They’re too long in the legs, but they’re clean. “Could be a few days.”

“I know,” Phillip murmurs. Edgar was always gentle when they made love, but Phillip still bled on occasion, and with his more violent partners he was like a woman on her period. “It’ll be fine.”

W.D. just passes him the flask.

Phillip takes a hit, then buttons up his borrowed shirt. Already bruises are mottling his chest and back. By morning he’s going to be a multi-coloured mess. His jaw is swelling on the left side, marked by a harsh rope burn, but the skin is unbroken and so is the bone. That’s something to be thankful for.

“I appreciate your help.” His forehead has not lost its distressed furrow. “I don’t know what I would have done.”

They both know what he would have done. Exactly what he’s done here, but alone. He tries to bend for the basin, muscles screaming, and W.D. motions him back. “Leave it,” he orders.

“I don’t want to be trouble.” Phillip leans on the counter, fighting to catch his breath. Did he crack a rib? Nothing seems out of place, but a hairline fracture would be hard to detect.

“Trouble would be getting Charles hurt.” W.D. makes as if to take a drink himself and then hesitates. He almost looks like he’s waiting for permission. Which is absurd, because it’s not Phillip’s flask or, for that matter, his whiskey.

“Do you mind?” W.D. asks finally.

“Why would I mind?” People share flasks all the time, especially where community and money are tight. “It’s not even mine.”

“Naw, it’s mine, but…” W.D. shrugs, looking away. “I washed it first. I mean, I wouldn’t…” He hesitates again, and then Phillip gets it.

“W.D., I don’t mind sharing with you. Your...it’s not a disease.”

“ _I_ know that,” W.D. shoots back, defensive. “Didn’t know if _you_ knew it.”

Phillip watches him take a swig. Then he accepts the flask. He has to silence the ingrained lessons of his childhood as he takes a deliberate drink. The people who drilled those lessons into him are not here tonight, helping him clean up, offering not a word of judgement. They’re the _reason_ he’s here.

“Thank you,” he says when he lowers the flask. He passes it back. “I owe you.”

“Not for this. This I’ve done before.” W.D. leans against the door. “That was with slaves, though. Never thought I’d see a high-and-mighty white man set dogs on his own son.”

W.D.’s body language is subtle but clear. “My father and I have a difficult relationship,” Phillip says, averting his eyes. He would like access to the door, but he knows better than to push for it. “I’m not really the kind of man he would choose for a son.”

“They could have killed you, using a cane like that.”

W.D.’s voice is dangerously low. Phillip leans again on the counter, suddenly feeling lightheaded. His knees are weak; he needs to sit somewhere reasonably comfortable. He hears W.D. come up behind him and has to steel himself against the urge to strike out, run away. He is safe. He has to remember that.

“Come on, Carlyle.” W.D. loops an arm around his ribs. “Time to sleep it off.”

Sleep sounds good, but Phillip doubts it will be that easy. “Thanks, W.D.,” he mutters again, letting the man take his weight. “You’ve been...kind.”

“Don’t get any ideas.” The humour is trace but unmistakable. “You’re still not dating my sister.”

* * *

Nora has joined Anne and Lettie on the floor. Lettie strokes Anne’s hair over and over in a soothing rhythm. At last the door opens and Phillip emerges, dressed in loose slacks and a shirt. He’s leaning on W.D., but he looks a little more composed. Anne would almost say normal, if not for the bleak expression in his eyes.

Then she sees him walk, and any trace of the illusion shatters. “Oh, honey,” Lettie starts, rising to her feet and reaching for him, but W.D. shakes his head.

“Let me get him settled,” he says. He and Phillip walk in tandem, step for halting step, and their little entourage slowly makes its way to one of the unused rooms.

The first thing W.D. does is press a flask into Phillip’s hand. Without hesitation Phillip unscrews the top and throws back a mouthful. “Is that wise?” Lettie murmurs as W.D. eases Phillip down to the cot, but she doesn’t sound ready to kick up a fuss. Tonight, it might be a necessary evil.

W.D. drapes a blanket over Phillip’s shoulders, hitching it into place with one hand. Then he leans against the wall. He looks aloof, but Anne knows what Phillip has triggered, what memories have crawled hollow-eyed out of their crypts.

 _“I couldn’t save Mama from him,”_ _W.D. says that night._ That _Night, at the edge of Mister Hayley’s fields, Anne balking, terrified of North._ _W.D. has a sweaty, desperate look she’s only seen on people about to run or commit suicide. “I can’t be mad at Hayley for bringin’ you into this world, ‘cause you’re the best thing that ever happened to me. But I won’t let him do to you what he did to Mama, not if search dogs chew me down to the bone. The Almighty strike me if I ever let that go again – for you or anyone you love.”_

_“I got no one like that.” Anne quakes in her worn shoes. “No one but you.”_

_“That’ll change. I’m gonna get it all for you, Annie, all of it and then some – but we gotta run. If you want more than cotton fields and white men’s babies, you run NOW.”_

Charles is still bent over the pile of paper shards on the opposite cot. “So,” he says, frowning over two mismatched pieces, “who’s gonna be the first to say it?”

“No one.” W.D. is firm. “Especially not you.”

“Hey, I got him here, didn’t I? You think _you_ could have done that?”

“This is not a dick-measuring contest,” Lettie snaps. “One of our own has been assaulted. That’s all that matters.”

“Assaulted.” Charles shoots her a look.

“We don’t need to be more specific.” Lettie sits next to Phillip, who is still knocking back shots of W.D.’s god-awful whiskey. She’s looking at him with all the hurt of a bereaved mother. “We know what happened.”

Gently, she reaches out and lifts a tangled strand of hair away from his forehead. As she smooths it back with the flat of her broad hand Phillip chokes, wiping his mouth with his knuckles. Anne thinks he might have been wiping away something other than whiskey, but she doesn’t comment.

“His hair.” She turns to W.D., seizing on the only practical thing she can think of. “It’s tangled. You didn’t brush it?”

W.D. gives her an incredulous look. “Sure, and I grew boobs and nursed ‘im,” he says. “Lord, Anne, I ain’t his nanny!”

“Fine.” Anne turns to the rest of the group. “I’ll do it if someone has a brush.”

Lettie reaches into her voluminous bosom and withdraws a chipped faux-pearled affair. “Here. It’s my beard comb, but a little facial hair never hurt anyone.”

Facial hair has literally resulted in multiple assaults upon her person. “You mind?” Anne murmurs, seeking Phillip’s gaze, and at her voice he lifts his eyes from the floor. He shakes his head a little, a tiny, brief smile touching his lips.

She takes the comb and kneels behind Phillip, laying a reassuring hand on his shoulder. The urge to coax the stiffness out of that firm, round muscle is powerful. To distract herself she abandons his shoulder in favour of carding her fingers through his hair. The dark waves tumble beautifully under her touch, and she wonders what other delights Phillip Carlyle possesses, and if thoughts of _her_ ever unravel him in the same way.

“It might tug a little,” she whispers. A hum wells up in his chest as she begins to work, and she instantly forgets that they are with three other people. The man is so _beautiful_ it seems impossible, like an antique meant for display and not for touching, and yet to leave him untouched would surely be a sin.

Yes, she knows why someone would want him. But does God even know why someone would hurt him?

She finally finishes, reluctantly aware that she can’t keep going forever, and he opens his eyes to look up at her. The shadow is still there in his cerulean blues, but his smile is less tremulous. “Thank you,” he whispers, and it’s all she can do to nod dumbly.

“Now that his hair looks perfect,” Charles drawls, glaring viciously at the pieces of manuscript, “can we talk about what we’re going to do?”

“There’s nothing to do except tell the police,” Lettie retorts as Anne settles herself on Phillip’s other side. “Barnum won’t let us retaliate.”

“You’re wrong, lady. For this, he’ll empty the gun himself.”

“He won’t.” Nora is perched on the edge of the bedframe with her tattooed feet on either side of Charles’ play-puzzle. “Not Barnum. Besides, what good would it do?”

“Talkin’ like a civilian,” Charles jeers. “Barnum’s gonna snap in three different directions, you watch.”

“Guys.” Phillip’s hands tremble around the flask, but his voice is steady, and every eye instantly goes to him. “This isn’t your business. I mean,” he fumbles, “this isn’t _circus_ business. What they did…” He flinches, and Lettie strokes his arm. “It wasn’t protestors. Not the kind you’re used to. What happened, happened for reasons you don’t understand.”

“ _I_ know why it happened,” Charles says bluntly. “Your old man hates you.”

“That’s not something I would have discussed in this room,” Phillip says quietly, but Anne can hear the traces of anger. “I’m sorry you got dragged into it, truly I am, but what happens in my family is my family’s business.”

“Horseshit. What happens in your old family is the business of your new, improved family. Anything else is just crap your dad’s been feeding you since you could fart.”

Phillip throws back another mouthful of whiskey. It seems to be taking the edge off his nerves, but Anne still hates the sight. If this sets him back, Barnum will throw a fit. Phillip’s sobriety is one of his favourite convictions.

“My father paid some thugs,” Phillip says when he lowers the flask. “I have no idea who they are. And it was too dark to make out their faces clearly. How about you, Charles? Could you make a positive identification?”

“Nope.”

“Exactly. There’s no point pursuing this.” It should disturb her, perhaps, that the more Phillip drinks the calmer he sounds. “So please, drop it.”

“We could work your father over,” Charles suggests, and everyone holds their breath.

Phillip fixes Charles with a stare that sends a little shiver down Anne’s spine. “You will not lay a hand on my father,” he says with quiet authority.

“Doesn’t have to be a hand.” Charles is pushing now, pushing hard. “If we bring the Strongman along we could hit him with anything we want.”

Abruptly Phillip gets up and limps toward the door. “Hold up.” W.D. pushes away from the wall. “Never mind him, Carlyle, he’s just running his mouth. Nothing’s gonna happen to your old man.”

“You don’t understand.” Phillip braces himself against the door with one hand. “Things are…complicated.”

“Okay, we get that.”

“No, you don’t.” Phillip points the flask at them. “I’ve been things…I’ve…done things…”

He stops, tears rising in his eyes. He’s never looked less drunk and more in pain.

“ _I_ know,” Nora says, her voice soft. She’s leaning her elbows on her knees, watching Phillip from her perch, and she wears a compassionate look at odds with her feral tattoos. “I know what you’re talking about.”

Phillip's brows slant together, an expression that reduces him to about ten or eleven. W.D. looks between the two of them. “What?” he demands. “What do you know?”

“Just what I know about me.” Nora shrugs, her chest tattoo contracting with the motion. “It goes either way for you, doesn’t it, Carlyle?”

Phillip makes a choked noise in his throat. “Goes either way?” Anne asks, struggling to understand. “You mean…?” She stops, not wanting, of all things, to get this wrong.

Nora smiles. “A circus is not an easy place to hide attraction,” she says. “A thigh here, some cleavage there…It adds up, and honey, I can do the math.”

Phillip lurches a little, and W.D immediately helps him back to the cot. “Man, is _that_ all you’ve been hiding?” he grumbles. He sounds disgruntled, ticked-off, amused. “What, you like the cut of Barnum’s trousers?”

“Barnum’s trousers do nothing for me,” Phillip forces through gritted teeth. “ _Guys_.”

“Nothing at all?” Charles asks, waggling his eyebrows, and Anne wants to slap him. “Hell, I’m straight as an axle, and it still ain’t easy being eye-to-eye with his…”

“Stop teasing him,” Nora snaps. “You think it’s funny. But look at tonight _._ This is what happens to people like us.”

A hush falls.

“Of _course_ Phillip finds Barnum attractive. Who doesn’t? But there’s a difference between liking what you see and wanting what you see. What Phillip wants from Barnum is nothing you can undress.”

Phillip is staring at the flask in his hand, elbows braced on his knees. “I’m sorry,” Anne says, resisting the urge to touch him. Before tonight she would have assumed that finding out something like this would change her opinion of him. But tonight all she sees is the same man she first met, uncertain and mysterious and mesmerised. “I’m sorry they hurt you.”

“It didn’t start out this way.”

“It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not. It started…” Phillip’s breath hitches.

“Your back.” W.D. nods at him when he doesn’t go on. “Did your old man do that too?”

Lettie reaches for Phillip’s shirt. “Don’t,” Phillip says hoarsely as she shucks it up, but it’s too late. The discolouration Anne glimpsed earlier is not a bruise. It’s an uneven reddish scar, stretching the width of Phillip’s lower back and punctuated by a shallow hollow. A burn. A _bad_ burn. And a peculiar touch of cruelty.

There’s a long, ridged silence. Then Nora speaks. “I don’t normally show people this,” she says. “But I think you need to see it.”

She pulls down the neck of her nightgown, exposing the tattooed expanse of her left breast. “When I was sixteen I was attacked by a sideshow protestor. He was drunk. I fought back, and it was like he turned into an animal. He bit me, hard, over and over.” She touches the spot where her nipple should have been. In its place is a dark swirl of ink. “That was when I began to cover myself with tattoos. I couldn’t remove the marks of his teeth, but I could write over them. I could rewrite my skin.”

She tucks herself away again. After a moment W.D. tugs his shirt up, revealing his muscled back. Anne has to look away from the familiar whip-weals. “Probably don’t need to explain these,” he shrugs. “All I’ll say is, I earned ‘em with honest labour and a bad-tempered overseer.”

W.D. lets his shirt fall back into place. As he does, Lettie taps Phillip’s knee to get his attention. “Just one of a few,” she says, pointing out the jagged white scar behind her jaw. “Some guy in his cups thought he would give me a shave. Damn near cut my throat.”

Charles climbs down from the cot. They all lean in as he parts his thick hair. “You think that’s bad, check this out. Courtesy of my dad.”

Nora traces the horrific scar that runs from his crown to his nape, and W.D. whistles. “What did that?” he asks.

“Beer bottle.” Charles grins proudly. “You’re lookin’ at the hardest head in the state. My dad almost scalped me. He thought I was dead, decided to bolt. Never heard from him again, so I guess it was worth it.”

Anne’s pulse thumps against the tendons in her neck as they all turn to her expectantly. Slowly, she lifts her nightgown to expose the inside of her right thigh. “We had to climb a lot of fences when we ran,” she says, averting her eyes from Phillip’s. “One time we cut through a cattle field. I slipped trying to get over the barbed wire.” She presses two fingers to the twisted star-shape in her flesh. “I’m lucky W.D. was there to lift me over. Alone, I’d probably be dead.”

“If we don’t stick together, we fall and we fall hard.” W.D. crosses his arms. “That’s a plain fact, Carlyle.”

Lettie nudges Phillip with her knee. “So give,” she says. “What’s the story?”

He turns the flask over and over in his hands. The remnants of whiskey tip back and forth. “It’s not good,” he says throatily. “I don’t have much to be proud of.”

“None of us did.” Lettie slips an arm around his shoulder. Her voice goes soft. “Barnum dirtied his shoes in a lot of gutters to find us.”

“How did it start?” Nora prods him.

Phillip takes a long breath. Then, while they’re still holding theirs, he lets his out in a sudden laugh. “Funny thing,” he says. “It started because I went to the theatre.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter up sometime on Monday, May 27. (I've decided to set update deadlines going forward in the interest of being fair to you and also motivating myself, because I am too busy not to be motivated.) If it happens to be up sooner...well, huzzah! <3


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we have a long freaking chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised! :D

_Phillip is nine, bent over the desk in his room, when he first learns the Lesson._

_He’s always been small for his age, but here it works to his advantage. The_ creak creak _of the chair as he swings his legs freely is delightful, a rhythm to which he hums steadily. Before long his fingers are tapping along._

_The tapping soon turns emphatic; without knowing it he’s keeping three different but complementary beats with his fingers, legs, and voice. He breaks momentarily to write down another line of the story he’s composing and then resumes. He’s so caught up in his swinging and humming and tapping that he doesn’t hear his father approach._

_“Phillip James.” Theodore’s voice is sharp, and Phillip drops his pencil involuntarily. “What are you doing?”_

_Heat floods his face. “Nothing, Father,” he blurts. “I mean…I’m doing my homework.”_

_Theodore enters and looks over Phillip’s shoulder. Ashamed, Phillip sits meekly back. “And this homework requires you to make noise?” he asks at last._

_“No, sir.” Phillip turns his gaze to his knees as Theodore picks up the unfinished story. “I’m sorry, I’ll be quiet.”_

_“Hm.” Theodore peruses his son’s large, neat letters with a strange expression. For a moment Phillip accurately diagnoses appreciation. But that quickly gives way to more typical disappointment. “Tell me, is this part of your English lesson?”_

_He wants so very much to lie. “No, Father.” He flinches downward. “I was distracted.”_

_“Distracted. I hear that word from you a great deal.” If Theodore’s thoughts are laced with amusement, none of it reaches Phillip’s ears. “And where might be that geography essay I am expecting?”_

_If Phillip could have seen his own face at that moment he would have been shocked at its pallor. “I – I forgot it,” he stammers._

_“Forgot it? Where?”_

_“At school.”_

_“And was it finished?”_

_Tears are now threatening to unman him. “No,” Phillip murmurs. “I’m sorry, Father. I got…distracted.”_

_Theodore sighs. “I’ll do a new one,” Phillip bursts out, desperate to take that look off his father’s face. “Right now, I’ll…” He scrabbles for his textbooks in the book bag at his feet. “I’ll…”_

_“No.” Theodore’s hand descends on his shoulder. “Phillip, do you recall why I wanted you to write that essay?”_

_Phillip’s insides go cold. “For your…Geographic Society?” he ventures, as though the interrogative form can negate the answer’s obvious correctness._

_“Yes. Do you know why I asked you?”_

_“Because I’m good at geography?”_

_“Not only that, but you are an excellent writer. Your tutors brag about you. It occurred to me that my peers might be interested to know that my son was capable of such precocious self-expression.” Theodore leans forward a little. “Do you know who happens to be sitting in the parlour right now?”_

_Now Phillip is crying. “I don’t have an essay, Father,” he says through the trickle of tears. “Please, can I do it next time?”_

_“You most certainly cannot. They are waiting for you.”_

_There’s a dreadful silence._

_Theodore sighs. “Come, Phillip, sit,” he says, crooking his finger. “Today you will learn something important.”_

_Phillip tries unsuccessfully to stifle his tears as he hops up next to his tall father on the bed. “You made a commitment,” Theodore explains. “A man does not back down on his commitments. But much more importantly than that, a man does not back down from taking responsibility for his wrongs. You have committed a wrong. Do you know what it was?”_

_“I promised to write an essay,” Phillip sniffs, “and I didn’t.”_

_“What did you do instead?”_

_“I wrote a story.”_

_“Why did you write a story?”_

_“Because I like writing stories.”_

_“Was it the time to write stories?”_

_“No, sir.”_

_“No, sir,” Theodore confirms. “Now, to the more pressing issue at hand: seven distinguished men are in my parlour waiting to hear an essay by Phillip James Carlyle, son of Theodore James Carlyle, member of the Silver Geographic Society of New York City. Are they going to hear an essay?”_

_“No, sir.”_

_“What do you propose they hear instead?”_

_“I don’t know, sir.”_

_“Hm.” Theodore holds up the fragment of story, pretending to peruse it. “Obviously you consider this work of English to be dignified and upstanding, so much so that you spent time on it to the detriment of your studies. Perhaps you should show my society fellows the work you hold in such high regard.”_

_“Please, Father.” Phillip’s sensitive, secretive soul is ready to perish in flames. “Please, it’s not finished. It’s private. And…”_

_“We will simply say it has a suspenseful ending.” Theodore hands it back to him. “And if it was private, you should have worked on it in silence, and not with a racket that would draw half the house.”_

_He stands. “Father,” Phillip begs, ready almost to go down on his knees, “I’ll apologise. I’ll tell them how sorry I am. But please, I don’t want to read it to them. It’s only meant…for me.”_

_“You worked on it in time that was not your own.” Theodore looks down at him. “Ownership must be shared with those to whom you owe that time.” He beckons. “Come, boy, they’re waiting. Dry your eyes.”_

_Phillip wipes his face with his sleeve, but tears well up again a second later. “That’s enough,” Theodore says more sharply. “Nine years is old enough to own up to one’s mistakes. If this is humiliating for you, remember that it is also humiliating for me.”_

_He goes to the door. “You have five minutes to make an appearance,” he informs him, and then disappears._

_Seized as he is by the knowledge that he must get his tears under control or appear with them on his face, Phillip scrubs desperately at his eyes, finally stemming the flow to the occasional sniffle. He finds a handkerchief and blows his nose. A look in the mirror devastates him, and he hurries to the bathroom to splash his face with water._

_He appears in the parlour with seconds to spare, pale and flushed in all the wrong places. Looking around at the solemn, mostly portly faces of the assembled gentlemen, Phillip wonders if his father has told them of his fall. He doesn’t think it can be avoided, especially when the first words to leave his mouth will be_ On a dank, foggy day, when it wasn’t likely anything would happen, a horse found himself unexpectedly in a city of reeds…

_“Gentlemen, my son Phillip.” Theodore gestures to him. The men nod their recognition. “A few weeks ago, as you will recall, he engaged to write an essay for us on the Marcellus Shale – most specifically treating its abundance of iron pyrite, which his class has been studying. A fascinating feature of our state’s topography, but unfortunately one on which we shall not be educated today.”_

_A murmur of surprise makes its way around the room._

_“Indeed, Phillip has undertaken to compose a work of creative fiction instead.” Theodore smiles thinly. “I am afraid boys are more easily lost in the world of horses and make-believe than in shale and slate.”_

_Knowing chuckles pass between the gentlemen. Phillip waits for his father’s command, standing as tall as he can. He will not embarrass either himself or his father. He will be as dignified as Theodore Carlyle himself._

_“Phillip.” His father motions at him. “Read to us.”_

_“Loudly, lad.” The oldest and fattest gentleman leans forward. “I’ve got the devil’s own thumbs plugging my ears.”_

_So Phillip reads, speaking up as much as he can with this choking sensation in his throat. It’s not a long ordeal, thankfully, but every word he speaks feels ripped out of him like an organ. He stutters off the end of his unfinished story like a runaway tram off a cliff, hanging suspended for a moment before plunging to a natural demise. “That’s – that’s it,” he stammers, cold sweat beaded on his forehead. “I didn’t get to finish it.”_

_“Well done regardless, my boy.” One of the younger gentlemen smiles. “I think you could have a great future in the arts. Theatre, perhaps, or are you burning with the great American novel?”_

_Phillip stammers again, but this time it is from a wave of joy so powerful he feels he could be swept under. “Yes, sir,” he manages. “I mean, I think so, sir. I like both. I like books a lot…but I also like acting. I think maybe I could write plays_ and _act them, sir.”_

 _Instantly the mood plunges. In a reverse effect Phillip surfaces shockingly, slapping rudely through the filmy barrier of happiness. “_ Acting? _” the deaf gentlemen snorts, and someone else tuts. “Harrier, did I hear that right?”_

_“You did.” The youngish gentleman who praised him shakes his head a little. “My lad, I doubt very much there’ll be any acting in your future.”_

_Phillip looks at his father. “I think that’s enough daydreaming for one day,” Theodore says levelly. “Now, Phillip, don’t you have something else to say?”_

_Phillip gathers up the very last of his courage. “I’m sorry,” he says. “It’s my fault the essay wasn’t done. I’ll write you one if you still want.”_

_Two or three of the men nod gravely, as if accepting a serious apology from a peer, and it helps a little. “Good boy, Phillip.” Theodore taps his fingers on the arm of his chair. “Gentlemen, in truth, the main fault is mine. I should not have expected a child to embark on such a task without aid. Let this be a lesson to all of us: a man needs to guide his children in the tasks they are set, or he can expect them to fail, yes?”_

_Phillip’s jaw drops. The grace is utterly unexpected, and he’s not sure how to curtail the confused flush that heats his neck. “Now,” Theodore says to Phillip as respectful murmurs circle the room, “give me the story, please.”_

_Phillip complies, still awed and yet uneasy. “Please, Father,” he says, his eyes glued to Theodore’s, instinctively trying to read his intentions. “May I have it back soon? I want to finish it – after the essay, I mean.”_

_Theodore sighs, rubbing his forehead. In his other hand Phillip’s pencilled script smudges a little. “Gentlemen, will you excuse us a moment?” he says._

_They go to the kitchen, Phillip trailing behind obediently. “Are you angry, Father?” His eyes are now glued to the precious paper. “I’m s…”_

_“What did you mention acting for?” Theodore turns on the spot. He sounds irritable more than ireful, and Phillip breathes a little easier. “Harrier is right, boy, it will never happen.”_

_“I’m sorry,” Phillip repeats for what feels like the millionth time. “I won’t talk about it anymore. May I have my story back?” He looks up anxiously. “Please, Father?”_

_Theodore stares at him for a long moment. Then he holds the paper out. As Phillip darts out his hand Theodore says, “On the condition that you are the one to burn it.”_

_Phillip freezes with his fingertips resting on the paper. “What?” he asks, entirely forgetting deference. “But…why?”_

_“Because it is a distraction.” Theodore patiently holds it out. “Either you will burn this or I will. I leave the choice to you.”_

_Now his tears are welling again, but under the boyish anguish there is a thread of fury, thin and hot, as hot as heated copper through his heart. “Father, I won’t get distracted again. I promise. Please, don’t burn it.”_

_“There’s more where this came from. Much more, I’m afraid. You can compose another – in your leisure time.” Theodore looks down at him. “I do not forbid you to write, but I do forbid you to act in ways that will disgrace yourself and this family.”_

_Phillip’s body trembles. “I won’t,” he pleads. “I won’t, I won’t, I won’t.”_

_“No. You won’t.” Theodore tilts the paper. “Choose, Phillip. Shall you or shall I?”_

_It is the hardest decision of his young life. At last Phillip draws the paper toward himself, and Theodore opens the stove door. Inside, the fire licks itself like a dog. “Must I?” Phillip pleads, one last effort._

_Theodore holds open the door._

_Phillip extends the paper. The flames kiss one corner, a tentative advance from a lover. The paper begins to curl in on itself, slowly blackening, then catching. Phillip watches the marigold tongue lick along the edge, sprouting offshoots in every direction, and pushes it in a little further. Line by line it chars and slowly dissolves into ash._

_Phillip finally lets the paper go when the flames flick his fingers curiously. It floats down to the glowing coal, curling up in its final agony, and Theodore closes the stove door and latches it. Phillip no longer cries. Now he feels dead, as if his heart and not his story has been burned away._

_“Phillip.” A finger touches under his chin, and he allows his father to tilt his face up. “Do you understand what I am trying to teach you?”_

_Phillip stares up into the long, grave, dignified face. “Yes, Father,” he says hopelessly._

_“Say it back to me.”_

_Phillip struggles. He can’t think looking into those solemn eyes that bore into him with demands and expectations. “When I do wrong, I have to say sorry to the people I hurt,” he says at last. “And then I have to get rid of the thing that made me do wrong.”_

_“Exactly.” Satisfied, his father releases his chin, and that single word of approbation jumps without warning in him like a spark of life. “You were listening.”_

_“I was, Father,” Phillip says, and then, desperately, once more, “I’m sorry.”_

_Theodore tilts his head a little to one side. “You surprise me, Phillip,” he says, and it sounds sincere. “When you_ do _grace us with that essay, I believe it may be well worth waiting for.”_

_It is fatal. Warmth begins to curl inside him, like the fire that had curled the paper, disintegrated it, devoured it. Phillip gazes up at Father, and in that moment his heart falls, falls hard like a delicate glass ornament toward the hard kitchen floor._

Catch me, Father. _Something a child cannot name or know cries out to the man who is stronger and wiser and worthier than any other._ I love you, catch me, I’m falling. 

* * *

Phillip wakes with a harsh gasp and the feeling of plunging off a cliff.

Lettie’s chest rises and dips under his head. Her soft snores warm his hair, but her presence lacks its usual comfort. The whiskey still burns in his throat. So does the need. Phillip shifts, seeking relief in vain. Charles is curled on the other cot amid the fragments of creativity. Nora is stretched out on her stomach next to him, her inked arms flung up over her head. Anne’s head rests in the small of Nora’s back. W.D. is asleep near the door, his chin denting his chest.

Another minute ticks by, and suddenly Phillip can’t take it anymore. He struggles upright, biting back a pained groan. Carefully he inches his way out of Lettie’s embrace to sit on the edge of the bed. How is he going to bend far enough to do up his shoes? He decides he isn’t and settles for wrapping one of the blankets around his shoulders.

In the office he spreads out the play out on his desk. Then he limps over to the cabinet where he and Barnum keep a stash of bourbon. It’s probably their worst-kept secret, and one of Barnum’s not-so-subtle tests. He opens the door, wincing at the familiar creak. He feels almost giddy at the thought of how absolutely he is about to shatter Barnum’s faith in him, and is this what the bottom looks like, from the perspective of an inch?

He selects an unopened bottle and the remnants of another and sets them on his desk. Then he pulls out a fresh stack of paper. In the light of a single lamp he begins the arduous process of scribing his play. His spectacles were shattered in the assault, but it doesn’t really matter because the more he drinks the less his farsightedness registers.

He finishes both the liquor and the play a couple of hours before dawn. The fingers of his right hand have cramped into a temporary claw. He manages to stumble over to Barnum’s desk, where he almost falls over trying to write him a note. When his right hand refuses to cooperate he switches to his left, unaware of how bizarrely disjointed his script is.

 _At the docks,_ he writes. _Remedial sunrise. Apologies for absence._ Then, with the blanket still slung over his shoulders and no shoes, he leaves the note and walks out.

He knew this was going to happen the moment he heard the footsteps on the pavement. He curls into a ball in a corner of the carriage, hiding his ears from the sound of the clopping hooves, and listens instead to the thump of his heart. When the carriage rocks to a halt he tries to pay the cabbie and ends up just leaving whatever he has on the seat. He walks unsteadily to the front door and rings over and over until the butler answers.

“The master is in bed,” the man intones, admirably self-possessed even in his nightclothes. “Please return at a more appropriate time.”

“Don’t you recognise me?” Phillip slurs the consonants. “I’m the _young_ master.”

“Yes, sir, I do.” The butler doesn’t flinch. “Please return at a more appropriate time.”

Phillip braces himself on the doorframe, and now the man does flinch, nose wrinkling. “That’s what I said last night. _Please return at a more appropriate time_. But they said no. So I think that’s what I’m going to say to you.”

The butler finally gives way before the olfactory assault and Phillip stumbles down the front hall, nearly tripping over W.D.’s rolled-up cuffs. He heads directly to the study, habit or instinct, and finds the fire already lit. Theodore Carlyle sits near it as if he’s waiting, just like all those years ago, but this time his hands are empty. So is his face.

Phillip is the first to break the silence. “Sleep well?” he asks.

Theodore makes a dismissive motion. Phillip thinks it’s meant for him until the butler says, “Sir, are you certain?”

“Yes. Leave us.” Theodore sounds tired. Maybe he _didn’t_ sleep. “I’ll call if you’re needed.”

The butler bows and withdraws. “I thought you would show up.” Theodore still doesn’t turn, as if it’s too much effort. “Of course, I’ve been expecting you ever since Bennet’s article.”

“I did nothing I needed to give an account of.” Phillip’s body screams for him to sit down, lie down, fall down. “The same can’t be said of you.”

“You have taken the disgrace of this family to the next level. Flaunting yourself publicly, flaunting your connection with that… _man_ …”

“Can’t you even look at me when you say that?”

For a moment Theodore doesn’t move. Then, slowly, he turns his head. Phillip spreads his arms, as much to keep his balance as to be dramatic. “There,” he says. “That wasn’t hard.”

“You look like a goddamn vagabond.” Theodore’s words drip with disgust. “Don’t you at least get fair compensation?”

“I do. I looked perfectly respectable until your boys showed up last night.”

“You _looked_.” Theodore gets up, heading for the sideboard with its venerable array of liquor. “You _weren’t_.”

Phillip watches his father reach for a tumbler. “Are you going to offer me a drink?” he asks. “I’d love one, thank you, the bottle will do.”

“You’re a revolting spectacle.” Theodore snappily withdraws his hand. “You never saw _me_ drink to such excess.”

“You never saw me tumbling around behind my wife’s back.”

“I’ve seen you do far worse, I assure you.”

“Step up and sign your work,” Phillip says deliriously.

Theodore fixes him with a searing look. “You. Are. Drunk,” he bites off.

“I am _disgustingly_ drunk.” Phillip feels light in his head and heavy in his feet, like an anchored balloon. “I haven’t been this drunk in months. How many? Three. Three and a half.” He ticks them off on his fingers. “I joined P.T.…October 19, 1871. Best day of my life. Three and a half months.”

Theodore turns away as if he can’t bear to look at him. “I imagine you’ve found other vices to fill your time,” he says curtly.

“I have learned to shovel elephant poop.” Absurd pride swells his voice. “I go home at the end of the day smelling like a turd, and I feel like a king.”

“Son, you are shovelling right now.”

“No.” Phillip points a finger at him. “You think I’m kissing my ringmaster. You think he spreads me out on his red coat and bangs me. That’s what you think.”

“I don’t want to hear about what you are doing with that man,” Theodore says loudly, but Phillip just raises his voice even louder.

“He’s not laying me. He wouldn’t even if he wanted to. He’s _loyal_.” Phillip can’t seem to stress this enough; he almost falls over trying to put weight on it. “You don’t get to slander him. You of the…the scullery-maid mistress.”

“You are treading on thin ice, Phillip James Carlyle,” Theodore spits.

“No, I fell through it years ago.” Phillip catches himself on an end table mid-stagger, and a glass trinket falls to the floor and shatters. “Shit,” he mutters, the sound cutting abruptly through his fog. “Shit. I did that.”

A match flares in the march of seconds. “She loved that one.” Theodore lights a cigar. His face is drawn with hard lines. “But that’s just like you. Breaking the things she loves.”

Phillip turns to him. “ _You_ broke me,” he says in a low growl.

“ _I_ tried to hold you together. _You_ insisted on falling to pieces.” Theodore expels a cloud of heavy smoke. “What more can a father do?” he asks of the wall, or maybe God. “Tell me, what could I have done?”

“You could have saved me.” Since God and the wall remain silent, Phillip answers. “All you had to do was admit you were wrong. That was all I ever wanted.”

“All you ever wanted.” Theodore’s laugh is strained. “The ruin of your mother’s marriage, the shame of your father, the collapse of all he worked to build.” He taps the cigar and ashes trickle carelessly to the carpet. “A small price to pay for my son’s happiness,” he murmurs, emotion trembling like a bitter note.

Unwanted tears brim in Phillip’s eyes. “You could have made a good man out of me,” he shoots back. “Anything you wanted. I admired you.”

“A son should always admire his father.”

“Sometimes he can’t.” Tears waver on Phillip’s eyelashes. “Everything I did was for you. The affairs, the men, the drinking…I burned in hell just so you would come and rescue me. But you didn’t. You left me there. You fucking _left_ me there.”

“Language,” Theodore whispers, the cigar quivering between his fingers. “You were such a good boy, Phillip. Such a good – gentle – boy.”

Their ragged breaths fill the room. Unsteadily, Phillip reaches inside his trousers and withdraws the bloodstained cloth. “Ask me what they did,” he says throatily. He tosses it on the sideboard. “Go on.”

The shaking of Theodore’s aging hands intensifies. “Ask me where they put the cane,” Phillip snaps, fury leaking through the cracked cistern of control. “And then ask me what else they put there.”

“It was not at my behest.” The words are spoken in a whisper so stricken that Phillip is forced to believe them. “I specified nothing.”

“They enjoyed your ambiguity.”

Theodore draws a stuttering breath through the cigar. “You will recover,” he says. “In time.”

Phillip doesn’t know what to say to that. It is phrased like a statement but has the tone of a question. “I don’t have a lot invested in that,” he says.

“I do.”

“You have no right to expect…”

“I have the right to expect _decorum!_ ” Theodore smashes a fist down on the sideboard, and Phillip startles back, nearly tripping over his own feet. “For God’s sake, you are a man, not a half-bred strumpet in heat!”

“Was it the same cane you drove into my back?” Phillip feels wild in his brain, the way he did as a child when he spent three days in a fever. “Did that strike you as fitting? Because it seems almost theatrical, like something I would…”

“You will not stay at the circus.” Theodore is facing him now. His normally pale face is scarlet. “Not under these conditions.”

Phillip’s liquored brain struggles to track this. “What do you mean?”

“You are playing the whore, and you are going to stop.” Theodore’s voice lowers to a deadly growl. “I promise you this: if I ever see another mention of you in the paper connected to the circus, or see you in _his_ company about town, or hear that you have been taking part in his show, I will bring criminal accusations against him so blasphemous he will pray for hell.”

“No.” A roar is building in Phillip’s ears, the way it does sometimes just before he vomits. “You have no right.”

“Sodomy with a known sodomite. Lascivious fornication with a younger man claiming to be his business partner. Adultery of the vilest kind, and that with a family at home. All cultivated in that devil’s den he calls a circus.” Theodore’s lips form an ugly twist. “I can get as creative as you like, and none of it would be an exaggeration.”

“You’re _wrong_ ,” Phillip shouts, and in one mighty heave sweeps all the liquor off the sideboard. A cacophony of shattering glass and splattered spirits fractures the night. “You can’t take this from me.” He picks up a chair and hurls it, and the plaster of a wall gives way. “It’s my _life!_ ”

“Phillip, compose yourself!”

“You can’t take him from me!” Phillip doesn’t realise his tears are raging free until he tastes salt on his lips. “He didn’t do anything wrong. He’s good for me. He’s _good!_ ”

“You will desist immediately.” Theodore’s lips are deadly white. “If you do not, you will be restrained, I care not who hears it.”

Phillip turns to see the butler and another male servant standing nearby. They look at him as if they’ve never seen him before. “You can’t hurt him,” he says, his voice breaking. “You can’t.”

“He will go to prison.” The cigar is slowly ground between Theodore’s fingers. “You know what will happen to a man like him in there. And then he will break his back in hard labour until he dies, alone and grey. If you think I care enough about a street rat to prevent its suffering, you have a lifetime of regret ahead of you.”

“I already do,” Phillip says hoarsely. “Don’t lay my sins on his shoulders.”

“If you would spare him that, this is what I suggest.” Theodore’s tone takes it well out of the realm of advice. “Return to your theatrical pursuits. Establish yourself as a gentleman in another city, at least until you have some semblance of control over yourself. Then return to me. I will find you both a suitable wife _and_ a suitable place in the Carlyle enterprises. Barnum will be allowed to go his own way. All will be forgotten. But Phillip…this contest between us _must_ end.”

Phillip turns away. His head is splitting apart with the yelling. He loses his balance, staggering, and hits the floor hip-first. He rolls awkwardly to his knees and immediately feels the sting of glass in his palms. “Shit,” he mutters again, but it lacks vehemence. He has nothing left in him like that. “Fine,” he forces out, feeling a familiar surge in his throat. “I’ll do what you say.”

And vomits on the carpet in spitting hauls. 

* * *

He sees the sunrise from the docks.

He’s not sure why, in his note to Barnum, he sent himself here – he has no special connection to the docks of New York, except that Barnum once dragged him through this particular area looking for new performers. Nor is he sure why, laden with a bloated corpse of a hangover, he would want to view the sun in _any_ position. But the fact remains that he told Barnum he would be here, so here he is.

He huddles near the waterfront, his blanket wrapped ineffectually around him. The sun glints viciously off the hull of a nearby ship, as stunning and lethal as an Amazon. He blows on his hands within the confines of the blanket. His bare feet keep slipping out from under the blanket and he cups his toes, willing feeling back into them.

“Hey.” One of the sailors in a group, a brash, friendly young man, jerks his chin at him. “You look rough. Hard night?”

Phillip crooks a smile. They don’t know he’s upper-crust. His blue-collar clothes and unkempt hair lie uncomfortably well. “You could say that,” he says, slurring a little. His mouth is sticky and sour. “You?”

“I made the acquaintance of a lovely young lady and her friend, Mister Hops.” Raucous laughter greets this brag, but it’s so bluff Phillip can’t help joining in. “All in all, not a bad way to pass the wee hours, you think?”

Phillip pulls the blanket tighter around himself. “Lately I’ve been getting a little too much of the lady’s friend, if I’m honest.”

“Yeah, you look really bad,” the young sailor says cheerfully. “You set up for a wash and a shave?”

Phillip feels along his sandpapery jaw. As much as Barnum teases him about his boyish looks, they are pretty well-matched when it comes to battling stubble. “I’ve been thinking about growing it out,” he lies. “Maybe look a little older, more dignified.”

“Who needs it?” A greybeard spits energetically on the ground. “You’ll get there soon enough.”

One of his compatriots squeezes his wrinkled cheeks, drawing good-natured hoots and leers. The old man thumps the offender hard; the resulting hilarity reminds Phillip of the circus. A pang of homesickness takes him off guard, strong enough to level him.

“Y’know, you’re not so big, but you look pretty strong.” The young sailor cocks his head. “You got work?”

“Not at the moment.” Phillip is amazed at how easily these lies come to him. Part of him just wants to pretend his life is not his own, just for a few minutes, that maybe he could be as carefree as this young man appears to be. “Why? You have something in mind?”

“Yeah, couple of our boys took sick. We need to fill the bunks. Got any experience on the water?”

“I was a passenger when I was eight. The captain let me touch the wheel.”

“Hell, you’re more qualified than our second mate then. Man calls a rudder an udder, thinks we steer by cow tit.” The sailor jerks his thumb at the waiting ship. “I wager they’d sign you on, if you’re willing to swab decks and pour coffee.”

For a crazy moment Phillip considers taking him up on it, just hopping on board, no baggage, no past, not even his name in tow, and escaping from this nightmare. He thinks Barnum might even be proud of him, once he gets over the loss of his business partner. He smiles and nods as the sailors extol the virtues of a life on the water, accepts the bitter coffee they hand him, makes up lies about his life just to see the acceptance growing on their faces and the white puff of breathy laughter.

And that's where Barnum finds him.

Phillip can tell it’s him even with his back turned, the fast thump of familiar strides slowing to a cautious, curious stroll. He doesn’t turn because he wants the spell to last just a bit longer, the one where he isn’t raped and disfavoured and about to abandon the work he loves. Barnum stops next to him, and Phillip stares at the contrast of his bare, dirty feet next to the polished shoes. He tucks them back into the tent of the blanket.

“Good morning, gentlemen.” Barnum’s voice is as easy as ever, at least to ears that aren’t trained to detect its strains and hitches. “I see you’ve made the acquaintance of my friend.”

“ _Your_ friend?” The young sailor studies Barnum. “Hey, ain’t I seen you someplace?”

Barnum smiles and tips his hat. “Sweet Mother Mary!” The young man elbows one of his fellows. “It’s that circus guy.”

“In the flesh and at your service.” Barnum bows. “I trust my partner has been sufficiently entertaining in my absence.”

“Your _what?_ ” The sailor turns to Phillip, comically astonished. “ _Who?_ ”

“Long story,” Phillip mutters, staring into the cold dregs of his coffee.

“Very long,” Barnum agrees. He squats by Phillip’s side, and one hand rests lightly on the nape of his neck, just below the finger-shaped bruises. “And it involves a significant amount of liquor.”

“What good story doesn’t?” The sailor stares openly at them. “Man, why didn’t you say so? What the hell you doing with the likes of us?”

“Keeping my options open,” Phillip quips, and the group roars with laughter.

“Mate, if I had your options I wouldn’t be lookin’ for more,” the young sailor says. “What do you do at the circus, anyway?”

“Keep the books,” Phillip says at the same time Barnum says, “He’s a ringmaster.”

“A little bit of everything,” Barnum concedes, lightly squeezing the back of Phillip’s neck. His fingers are comfortingly warm. “This is a man of many and varied talents.”

“I guess sailing won’t be one of ‘em.” The sailor spits genially. “Shoot, it’s too bad you couldn’t have signed on. We could use some first-class entertainment on board.”

First-class. Phillip chances a look at Barnum’s face, and the little smile on the man’s face turns to a soft frown. “You scared me,” he says, too low for the sailors to hear. “I didn’t know what to think.”

Phillip lowers his eyes. “Thanks for taking care of him,” Barnum says to the sailors. “Say, you fellows around for a bit?”

“We’re shoving off this morning,” the greybeard grumbles. “Why?”

“Well, I was going to invite you free of charge to my show.” Barnum digs in his jacket and comes up with a handful of tickets. It’s one of his favourite (and more questionable) methods of advertising. “Here. Next time you’re in town, show these at the window.”

The group turns inward, chattering excitedly over their unexpected windfall, and Barnum focuses again on Phillip. “Don’t you ever do that again,” he says lowly. “When I saw your note I thought they’d be pulling your body from the harbour.”

“I’m sorry.” A trickle of moisture runs from Phillip’s nose, and he wipes at it with his borrowed sleeve. “I was drunk.”

Barnum uses his free hand to tilt Phillip’s face up. It hurts to see pain etched into every jovial line. “Lettie told me everything,” he says. “It should have been you, Phil. I thought if there was anyone you could level with, it would be me.”

Phillip closes his eyes. “I couldn’t,” he says. “I couldn’t stand to see you look at me differently.”

“Am I looking at you differently now?”

Phillip says nothing.

Barnum’s fingers are a gentle but insistent press on his jaw. “Look at me, Phillip.”

After what he’s put Barnum through, he doesn’t dare refuse. He opens his eyes and sees Barnum’s whiskey irises glinting with unshed tears. “I need to know how bad this is,” the man whispers. “Do you need a hospital?”

“No,” Phillip says quickly. “No, I’m going to be fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

Barnum releases him and shrugs out of his overcoat. He spreads it over Phillip’s shoulders. “Then I’ll take you home.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“I dare you to say that again.”

Phillip shuts his mouth. “Thanks again, boys,” Barnum calls to the sailors. He speaks with an easy lilt that suggests he’s not as foreign to their rough ways as he would like to pretend. “I’ll get him out of your hair.”

“See you, mate,” the young sailor calls to Phillip, waving. “Too bad you couldn’t join up.”

Phillip grasps the hand Barnum offers. “One, two, three,” Barnum chants, and pulls.

Phillip shouts in anguish and falls back to the ground, impacting with a searing blow. Instantly Barnum is there, encircling him with his arms, as if the pain is an external thing he can keep at bay. He looks at Phillip, stricken, his eyes and mouth wide, looking frightened.

“I’m _sure_ ,” Phillip repeats when he can speak again. “My muscles are stiff, that’s all. Frozen.”

Barnum exhales through his nose. He looks like he needs to catch his own breath after that cry. “Okay,” he says. “Put your arms around my neck.”

“You can’t carry me.”

“Really?” Barnum slides one arm around his back, the other into the crook of his knees. “Ready?”

He lifts. Phillip clutches at him, alarmed. “Just relax.” Barnum begins to carry him back to the carriage, and the sailors whistle at them, benignly. “It’s not far.”

No one has ever carried him bridal-style, except that one man with sandbags for muscles, and it wasn’t _carrying_ so much as _tossing_. “You can’t be doing this. Not…with me.”

“I’m carrying my injured friend to his carriage.” Barnum’s breath is coming a bit short, but otherwise he sounds perfectly normal. “If someone has a problem, let _them_ carry you. Fitting punishment; you weigh a ton, you little elephant.”

“P.T., people are _staring_ at us.”

“Let ‘em stare. They don’t even know what they’re looking at.”

“That’s what's dangerous.”

“You know what?” Barnum stops, and he’s smiling through his heavy breaths. “Relax. I feel like I’m carrying a corpse cross-tied to a cedar plank.”

Phillip groans a laugh, eyes clenched shut against the morning glare. “That’s _far_ too specific to be made up,” he says.

Barnum’s arms tighten, coaxing him into security. “Relax, Phil. Take that as my advice to you generally. Just…relax.”

Part of the problem is he genuinely doesn’t know how to position himself. He exhales slowly, easing his muscles, but he still faces the problem of where to put his head. He can’t lay it on Barnum’s shoulder at this angle. “Anywhere will do,” Barnum says as if he reads his mind, a hint of a smile in his voice. “You’re not contagious.”

“No, but I smell.”

“That you do.”

The words are laced with humour, and because of that Phillip dares to rest his forehead lightly against Barnum’s jaw. At this hour it’s smooth, freshly-shaven and musky, in stark contrast to Phillip’s haggard, drunken, vagrant appearance. It is comforting and far more than he deserves. He wants to hold his breath for Barnum’s sake but pain yanks choppy exhales out of him without warning.

“Better?” he dares to ask against the pulse of Barnum’s throat, praying, praying the man is not repulsed and knowing he must be.

“Better,” Barnum says, and resumes walking.

Phillip closes his eyes against the sight of people grinning or frowning or some grotesque combination of the two. “How can you bear to help me?” he mutters. “When you know what I am.”

“What are you, Phil?”

The question is gentle. Phillip keeps his face tucked carefully against Barnum’s neck, because the sun doesn’t bother him there and neither does the truth. “Are you going to make me say it?” he murmurs.

“No. And I’ll never mention it again if you don’t want me to. But I’d like to think I can handle it as well as the next guy.”

“The next guy doesn’t handle it well.”

Barnum stops, and because Phillip doesn’t realise they’re at the carriage and is afflicted suddenly by a wild terror of abandonment, he confesses, “My father thinks I’m sleeping with you.”

“Really?” Barnum says mildly. “Well, you’re not.” He bends, and Phillip finds himself suddenly within the merciful darkness of the carriage. “Unless you’ve been putting something truly amazing in my drinks.”

Phillip turns away and presses his face against the window. Barnum says something to the cabby, then rocks the carriage as he slides in. Tears are tracking down Phillip’s face, tears that he is mortified to cry. He’s reached an extreme point of misery that defies physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual distinctions; it’s all muddied together like disturbed silt in a riverbed, flaring up from its long sleep under trampling feet.

A hand cups the back of his head. “No,” Phillip says, resisting.

“You’re cold, you’re exhausted, I can smell the sick on your breath. You need to lie down.”

“Barnum,” Phillip chokes out as the man coaxes him down onto his lap. “I'm not a man you should have in this position. If someone sees…”

“No more of that.” Barnum’s warm belly presses lightly against Phillip’s back with every breath; Phillip’s head nestles comfortably in the crook of one strong arm. “I’ll wake you at the train station.”

Phillip’s brain struggles with this. “The train…but…” he slurs.

“You didn’t think I meant _your_ home, did you?” Barnum’s free hand settles the blanket down. “Phil, to be honest, I’m not sure quite how far to trust you. Let me find some peace of mind, will you?”

A tear spills from Phillip’s eye. “I’ll make it all right,” he says. “You can trust me that far.”

“I don’t want you to make it all right. I want you to _be_ all right.” Barnum’s hand presses gently on his head. It feels like a benediction, worried and tender. “You’ve been through all nine circles of hell, and it's giving me grey hair. For mercy’s sake, sleep a while and let me catch my breath.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter up next Monday!
> 
> Thank you as always for your faithful interest in this story, it keeps a poor overcaffeinated writer going!


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which you could float away on the fluff. And then brace for impact.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I truly love you guys, and because I'm actually on top of my life at the moment, I'm posting this a day early. Cheers! :)
> 
> I just wanted to add THIS NOTE: the term "sodomite" (for a gay man) is used now and then throughout this work, including in this chapter. This is a common term for this time period and I wanted to include it because people then were not very nuanced in how they thought of homosexuals. I'm gay myself, so I hope no one takes offense at the use of this term - it's certainly not meant that way.

Phillip sits in the bath for at least an hour, eyes closed and head tilted back against the porcelain edge. Little shivers run over his skin. The water has cooled to near-frigidity, and he should really get out, but he doesn’t want to move. He doesn’t want to face the Barnums again.

Charity’s voice is a murmur just outside the door. “Phineas, what _happened?_ He looks awful.”

“His father.” Barnum’s tone is grim. “Son of a bitch had him roughed up. Roughed up…worse than that…” His whisper is indistinguishable.

“Oh, _Phin…_ ”

“I think it’s my fault. That damn article…I shouldn’t have pushed him to go on.”

 _No._ Phillip’s lips draw down in a grimace. _Don’t think that._

“Phin, whatever’s going on here is obviously bigger than that. Either that, or it’s far pettier. You can’t blame yourself. You didn’t know Phillip’s reasons.”

_Listen to her. She’s wiser than both of us put together._

“The question is, what do I do now?” Barnum sounds utterly exhausted. “I can’t exactly let this go.”

“You’re not thinking of doing something stupid, surely.”

“Define stupid.”

Charity’s silence is more terrifying than the possible responses. Phillip eases himself upright, cringing with the effort. His muscles are set in cement. He looks down and sees that the water is tinted pink. Right between his thighs is a murky swirl of rose.

He braces his hands on either side of the tub. He bites down on a cry of agony as he pushes himself up. He will _not_ have Barnum help him naked out of a tub. He slowly works one leg over the edge, finds a grip on the floor, and then shakily draws out the other.

The conversation stops as Phillip gingerly works on his trousers. The absorbent cloth is an uncomfortable bunch between his legs. How do women do this every month?

A soft knock on the door startles him. “Hey,” Barnum says, slipping inside. He looks at Phillip’s bare torso, roiling with purple and black, and his expression darkens. “How’s it going?”

“It looks worse than it is.” Phillip eases on his shirt. “The bath helped.”

Barnum’s fingers alight gently on a hard knot between his shoulder blades, one of many, and Phillip flinches away. “Sorry.” Barnum lets it be. “That’s going to hurt for a while.”

“As long as I don’t have to dance I’ll be fine.” Their eyes meet in the mirror, and Phillip quickly looks away. “How much does Charity know?”

“As much as she needs to.” Barnum hesitates with his hand on the doorknob. “How’s the…”

He settles for nodding vaguely southward. Phillip’s cheeks flame. “It’s fine,” he mutters.

Barnum just looks at him. Then he steps over to the tub. He looks in. “I see,” he says in a dead voice. “Perfectly fine.”

Phillip says nothing. With a sigh Barnum nods at the door, and they leave the bathroom. Phillip tries to move normally, but it’s too much to ask of his muscles. “Hey,” he mutters, keeping his eyes down as he stands awkwardly in the hall. He doesn’t want to see Charity’s face twist again in that expression of pained disbelief. Not until she looked at him that way at the front door did he feel the full thrust of his drunken, dishevelled shame.

“Do you feel better?” Charity steps up and lays both her hands on his cheeks. He feels the warm worry in her palms. “Your skin is cold.”

He tries to smile and fails. Why did Barnum bring him back here? He’s ruined beautiful families like this with a single act. “I’ll be out of your way soon,” he murmurs, stepping back. Charity’s hands reluctantly slip from his cheeks. “I’m sorry to be so much trouble.”

“You’re not trouble.”

Phillip doesn’t bother debating the obvious. “Come on,” Barnum tells him, steering him with a hand on his shoulder. “Time to sleep it off for real.”

Phillip lets Barnum guide him down the hall. The guest room is subdued, lidded by a heavy curtain. Barnum pushes him gently at the bed and he sinks down on the thick coverlet, exhausted beyond words. “Thanks,” he says, staring at his bare toes on the carpet. He’s glad Caroline and Helen are at school. He wouldn’t want them to see him like this. “It’s more than I could have asked for.”

“Works better if you lie down.” Barnum sounds amused, but he can’t cover up the undercurrent of worry. “See, you start by turning down the covers…”

“I know how a bed works.” All too well, as it turns out. “Just give me a minute.”

Barnum does.

“Okay, now I need a hand,” Phillip admits.

“All you had to do was ask.” Barnum gets him to his feet and holds him against his side, stripping back the covers with his free hand. Phillip half-collapses in the bed, drawing up his legs with a wince. “Shall I tuck you in?”

“P.T.”

Barnum smiles. “There,” he says, tossing the covers back over him. “The abbreviated version.”

The bed is deliciously warm. Phillip lies on his back, wishing he could curl up but afraid of the pull of abused muscle. “I’ll be out of your hair by tonight,” he says toward the ceiling.

“I think Charity will have a thing or two to say about that.” Barnum pushes his hands into his pockets. He’s looking down at Phillip with a strange expression. “Phil, can I ask you something?”

Phillip’s throat tightens. “Of course,” he says.

“When I approached you that first night…asked you to go for drinks…what did you think I was really asking?”

Phillip turns his face away. “It’s okay,” he says. “Whatever I thought, I was wrong.”

“But did you think…?”

“That’s usually the case when rich guys ask me for drinks, so yeah, I guess I did.”

Barnum contemplates this for a minute. “And you said yes anyway,” he observes.

He can’t let Barnum think what he’s thinking. “I’m not in love with you,” Phillip says just above a whisper. “I never was.”

“I think that’s what disturbs me the most.” The mattress depresses as Barnum sits on the edge. “I guess I just struggle to see how you could go to bed with any old Joe. Explain that one to me, Phil.”

Sleep is pressing in on him, but obviously this is something Barnum needs to hear. “I just didn’t care anymore,” Phillip murmurs. “I mean, the consequences didn’t matter.”

“The possibility that you might get hurt didn’t scare you?”

“It terrified me.” Phillip laughs hoarsely. “There’s no _possibility_ in the things I’ve done. I could tell right away that you were the kind of man who liked to experiment – and that’s never gone well for me.”

Barnum’s white-faced shock would be amusing in any other situation. “Relax, P.T., I found out pretty fast how you channel that predilection.” Phillip offers a half-smile. “Was I scared? Of course I was. You’re half a foot taller than I am and probably fifty pounds heavier. You could throw me across the room with one hand.”

“I had no idea you were assuming those things. If I’d known…”

“You would have run the other way.”

“No, I would have approached you differently.”

“You mean, you wouldn’t have gotten me stone-drunk and then spirited me away to your circus.”

Barnum’s smile is a pained concession. “I am capable of a certain degree of manipulation,” he admits.

“You’re a second Machiavelli.”

“A benign reincarnation, I hope.” Barnum rubs a thumb along a crease in his trousers. His expression is troubled. “I wish you had told me all this earlier. I wouldn’t have pushed so hard for you to enter the ring. That’s what pushed him…your father…over the edge. The exposure, and that article…”

“Don’t blame yourself. It’s not fair.”

“Charity says I’m careless sometimes,” Barnum says, as if Phillip isn't there. “Maybe I am. I don’t know why…sometimes it’s like I don’t _see_ …”

“P.T.” Phillip takes his wrist, and Barnum blinks as if shaken. “My father would love for you to blame yourself. Don’t give him that satisfaction.” Then, in a low voice, “It’s hard to see someone who’s trying to be invisible.”

He falls asleep with his hand on Barnum’s wrist, where it lies undisturbed for a long stretch of time. “You don’t understand, kid.” Barnum speaks at last into a silence as condemning as a harsh litany. “Seeing invisible people is my job.”

He tucks Phillip’s hand gently under the coverlet and closes the door softly behind him. 

* * *

_It’s that first night with Edgar again, all fumbling kisses and budding passion, things Phillip never knew he could do or_ wanted _to do. The rented bed is soft under him and Edgar is hard above him, but his smile is gentle and so are his hands. “You’re perfect,” he whispers, and Phillip stares up at him with wide eyes. “Just perfect.”_

_Edgar gets up, pulling Phillip with him, and laughingly pushes him against a wall. Delirious, Phillip watches as his lover starts to undress. “Perfect,” Edgar breathes again, and suddenly he turns into Barnum._

_It’s shocking, like a bucket of frigid water over a perspiring man. “Wait,” Phillip says as Barnum steps forward. “This isn’t right. This isn’t real.”_

_“Of course not.” One of Barnum’s hands fists in his shirt. “Nothing in my circus is real.”_

_With an easy motion he flips Phillip back onto the bed, and Phillip’s head bounces dazingly off the headboard. “P.T., please.” He begs with his voice and body together as the man approaches, thunder rolling in his face. “Please, don’t. This isn’t what I want!”_

_“I know what you do with him.” Barnum crawls onto the bed, towering over him, but now it’s his father, and Phillip lets out a cry of terror. “Sluts have no friends, no family. Just filthy lovers.”_

_The cane catches him across his bruised ribs. He yells, kicking out, but three pairs of hands pin him. He closes his eyes and suddenly, horribly, he can’t tell if it’s a cane inside him or something worse. He doesn’t want to open his eyes because God forbid he see Edgar or Barnum or his father on the other end of that piercing pressure, and blood is flowing between his thighs…_

He wakes in the dark with Charity’s hand on his back.

Tears soak the pillow beneath his cheek. He aches so deeply it hurts to breathe, but worse than that is the vise around his lungs. He rides out the last hitching sobs, remnants of a dream he barely remembers, as Charity rubs a soft line down his spine.

“I thought you might have nightmares,” she says at last. “I’m sorry.”

“Did I shout?” Phillip whispers.

“I didn’t hear anything until I was right outside.” Charity’s hand drifts to his hair, and he closes his swollen eyes under the gentle ministrations. “I wanted to see if you were awake, maybe wanted some supper.”

“I’m not hungry, thank you.” It’s a lie, but Phillip doubts his ability to keep anything down after that nightmare. Splintered fragments have caught in the web of his consciousness, enough to make his gorge rise.

“Hm. We’ll have to work on that.” Charity scratches his scalp lightly. “A word of warning: the girls are home and they’ve discovered your presence. I told them to let you sleep, but you may be getting visitors regardless.”

Phillip laughs against the wet spot on his pillow. “That’s fine,” he says. “If you’re okay with it.”

 _Am I a deviant?_ he wants to know. _Do my mistakes make me irredeemable? Dangerous? Suspect?_

“Don’t be silly. I’m always okay with it.” Charity pats his shoulder lightly. “Go back to sleep. If you’re hungry later and no one’s up, don’t hesitate to find something.”

Phillip has almost dozed off again when he hears the door click open. He lies still as two small sets of feet approach. “Phillip?” Helen whispers in the dark. “Are you awake?”

“I am,” he murmurs with a smile, cracking open one eye. “Did you come to visit me?”

“Yup.” A small body climbs up on the bed, and Phillip feels two slender arms go around his neck. “Mommy said we have to be gentle because you don’t feel well.”

“That’s right.” Phillip lets Helen nuzzle into his hair, not having the heart to tell her that even the light pressure on his side is painful. “How was school today?”

“Boring.” Helen’s voice is muffled against his scalp. “I’m not going tomorrow if you’re here.”

“I’m not much more interesting right now, believe me.” Phillip allows Caroline to stroke his face; she’s probably feeling for fever, imitating her mother. After their recent scare with Barnum, he wishes he could have spared them this. “How was _your_ day, Caroline?”

“I wished I was at the circus.” She kneels before the bed as if to pray, gazing up into his face. “Do you have a cold?”

“I don’t think so. Just aches and pains.”

“Maybe it’s the flu.” Caroline touches the puffy skin under his eyes, the harsh swelling along his jaw. “You _look_ sick.”

Phillip captures her fingers and kisses the tips. “Then you probably shouldn’t be here,” he says as she giggles. “Why don’t you go eat supper?”

“We already did,” Helen informs him. “You slept a _long_ time.”

“That’s what people do when they’re sick, Helen.” Caroline cocks her head. “Can we sleep here tonight, Phillip?”

“I don’t think so, sweetheart.”

“Why not?”

“Like I said, you could catch something. And I don’t think there’s really room in this bed for three.”

“But we’re a _small_ three,” Helen objects. “Come on, Carrie, let’s see if we fit!”

Caroline climbs up on his other side and Phillip grunts in pained amusement as she clips him with her foot. “Roll over,” Helen instructs, and despite the persistent stiffness he complies. “It’s more comfortable that way.”

“Is it?”

“Yes. You’ll _suffocate_ facedown.”

“See?” Caroline snuggles into his left side. “We fit.”

“That you do.” Phillip finds himself sandwiched between Barnum’s daughters, who give off body heat like little furnaces. “Still, I don’t think your mother will let you sleep here.”

“Daddy would.”

“Is Daddy in charge?”

“No,” both girls giggle.

Phillip smiles and closes his eyes. “Smart girls,” he murmurs, and begins to drift.

Barnum’s approach down the hall is heralded by his smooth baritone, occasionally straying into a rumbling bass. Caroline and Helen, who have been whispering to each other over Phillip’s chest, stop to listen. It’s a song he and Barnum have been co-writing with surprisingly good results – or so he thinks now that he actually hears it.

Barnum stops in the doorway. “I seem to have misplaced two daughters,” he says in a hokey mid-Western drawl. “I wonder if I might find them somewhere in the region of Phillip’s bed?”

Helen goes into hysterical fits that she tries to stifle. Caroline buries her face in Phillip’s neck, puffing warm laughter against his skin. “No, Daddy, no,” she gasps involuntarily, as if his tickling fingers are already on her sides.

“Ah, now I hear them.” Barnum resumes his progress, ambling along with his hands in his pockets. “My truant daughters.” The girls are squirming now against Phillip’s sides, caught in a sort of delicious terrified glee. “And what should I do with these two sneaky little girls I’ve found?”

“Phillip!” Helen squeaks in a last bid at salvation before Barnum scoops her up one-handed. “Help!”

“Too late.” Barnum gives her a quick tickle as she squeals happily against his chest. Then, Helen still under his arm, he clambers over the end of the bed with galumphing knee-strides. Phillip breaks into helpless laughter as the whole bed bucks and jolts. “I think I hear someone trying to hide in the covers,” Barnum grins, passing Phillip a wink. “Someone too small to be a circus apprentice - barely.”

“Phillip!” Caroline begs. “Don’t let him get me!”

“Phillip can’t save you.” Sounding supremely self-satisfied, Barnum pins the girls against his sides as they alternately bestow kisses and attempt escape. “Don’t you know he’s been wounded in combat?”

“ _Wounded?_ ” Helen squeals.

“Aye. Picture this.” Barnum’s voice drops dramatically. “A lone white knight, holding his ground in a deserted field. Up ride a gang of evil knaves – all ready to joust him to the death, miscreants all. Outnumbered, but holding his ground, the white knight fights – until the dragon shows up.”

Barnum’s taken on the rough-and-tumble pirate voice he uses to tell stories – or, as Charles likes to call it, the Bullshit Special. “What dragon?” Helen cries, as if its ferocious, rotting grin might appear in the bedroom window any second. “Why couldn’t Phillip beat it?”

“You can’t joust with knaves _and_ a dragon.” Barnum sounds shocked that she doesn’t know this. “Not at the same time.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’ve only got one lance.” Barnum pokes a finger in her belly in imitation, and she twitches and giggles. “And while knaves attack from the ground, a dragon always attacks from above.” He scissors his fingers. “Two different directions.”

“So what happened?”

“Protestors, Helen,” Caroline says quietly before Barnum can speak. Her hands are clasped around her father’s neck. “The protestors got him.”

The ensuing silence is stifling and somehow old.

“But you’re not a knight, Daddy, you’re the _king_.” Helen sounds genuinely indignant. “You’re _bigger_ than protestors. Can't you just fight them?”

Barnum sighs, and in the dim light from the hall Phillip sees how tired he is. “That’s just make-believe, Helen,” he says. “I wish it wasn’t, believe me.”

Helen’s silence sounds upset. “Here,” Barnum says, giving her a loud kiss on the forehead. The lilt in his voice is false, but he’s trying. “Don’t let those dastardly knaves worry you. Phillip will be up and fighting again in no time.”

“Right,” Phillip affirms, though he doesn’t feel any more optimistic than Caroline looks. “The wound’s not mortal, m’ladies.”

At last Caroline betrays a flicker of a smile. “I’m glad,” Helen says. She squirms out of Barnum’s arms to kiss Phillip’s cheek. “I don’t like it when wounds are mortal. When they are, somebody always has to leave the story.”

She slides down from the bed and runs from the room. Phillip finds her sudden compliance strange, but says nothing. “Off to bed with you,” Barnum says to Caroline, tapping the end of her nose. “Phillip needs his rest.”

“Can I sing him a lullaby?”

“Of course,” he says, letting her climb down from his lap. “Nothing wrong with a lullaby.”

“Do the harmony, Daddy,” she beseeches. “I like it when you do the harmony.”

So father and daughter sing him a lullaby, no more than a simple tune and a couple of rhymed lines. When it’s over Caroline pecks Phillip on the cheek and slides to the floor. “See you in the morning,” she says. “Sleep tight.”

“Don’t let the bedbugs bite,” Phillip returns.

Caroline gives him a little wave.

As she leaves Helen trots back in, clutching something in her arms. “Here,” she whispers, holding it out. “I picked a blue one.”

Phillip takes it. “Thank you,” he says over the top of the stuffed elephant. “This will definitely help me sleep.”

“Good. His name is Jims.” Helen pulls the covers over the toy, officially tucking them in. “Have nice dreams, Mister Knight.”

She leaves with a bounce of golden hair.

For a while neither Barnum nor Phillip speak. Then Barnum shifts so that one leg hangs over the edge of the bed. “Well, that just proves the persistence of little girls,” he says. “They’ve been at Charity for the past three hours trying to come up here.”

“They did cheer me up.” Phillip indicates the elephant. “I hope Helen won’t miss this tonight.”

“With her stash I doubt she will, but she may use it as an excuse to sneak back in.” Barnum runs a hand through his hair. “I spent the day at the circus. I had some crowd control to do, as you may imagine.”

Phillip nods.

Barnum shifts again, grimacing, and Phillip thinks _his knees bother him sometimes, but he never lets on – why is that?_ “Tomorrow morning you and I should have a talk,” he says. “I think I have a pretty good handle on what’s been going on so far; it’s what happens going forward that concerns me.”

“I don’t want the police involved.”

“Well, that’s your prerogative, and I can’t say I would do differently in your shoes. But this isn’t just between you and your father anymore. Now this is circus business.” Barnum pats his leg where it sprawls under the covers. “I’ll leave you with that, and wishes for a good night’s sleep.”

Phillip thinks it’ll be a long time until he can drop off again. After all, he slept all day. In less than five minutes he’s breathing deeply against the elephant and dreaming of things he won’t remember. 

* * *

He wakes while daylight is just a pale tint in the east, a whitish lining on dark petticoats. His stiffness has lessened somewhat, and when he uses the toilet he finds the bleeding sluggish. Barnum apparently broke into his new place while he was in town because the clothes draped over the bed are his own. He puts them on, then wraps himself in a blanket and pads out to the veranda.

He’s only out there about half an hour when Barnum appears, scruffy and tousled but with a perky step. He holds two mugs of steaming coffee in his hands. “Here,” he says, setting one of them on the railing where Phillip is perched. “Your lifeblood, sir.”

Phillip takes a long drink before he answers. Unlike Barnum, who bounces like Tigger by six, he believes all mornings should start no earlier than ten o’clock. “Thanks,” he says at last, lowering the half-empty mug. “I needed that.”

“Hm.” Barnum downs half of his own mug, then straddles the railing a couple of feet from Phillip. “How was your night?”

“Better than my yesterday.” Phillip feels almost shy. It was easier to face Barnum in the dark, where he could hide. “I didn’t dream much, which is…a mercy.”

Barnum drums out a light beat on his thigh. He can’t help himself; mornings are adrenaline in his veins, pumping him up for whatever absurdity he planned the night before. “Ready to talk business?” he asks.

Phillip can’t very well say no. “Whatever you want,” he says.

“Okay.” Barnum taps a complementary beat on his mug. “First things first. Lettie says you don’t know who assaulted you. Is that the truth?”

“Yes, sir,” Phillip says, not quite mocking. When Barnum gets this tone, the one where _father_ and _boss_ and _demigod_ blur together, it’s nigh impossible to sass him. Still, he’s thirty years old. He’s old enough to be a father himself. “Even if I did, I don’t think I would have recognised them in the dark.”

“I’ll accept that. Next question: would your father be at home today?”

“No, P.T. Just…no. You can’t.”

“Well, he’s the only one I can rightly hold to account at this moment. Someone has to do it, and I’m not sure – again, it’s your decision – but I don’t think you should do that yourself. Considering how little respect he has for your person…”

“I’ve already _been_ to see him,” Phillip interrupts. “When I left the circus that night…”

“…snuck out…”

“… _left_ , I went to his house. I knew he’d be waiting for me.” Phillip runs a hand through his unbrushed hair. “I’m leaving, P.T.,” he says abruptly, and lets out a heavy breath. There, it’s out.

Barnum dips his head, seeking Phillip's attention. “You’re welcome to stay here as long as you need,” he says earnestly. “You know you’re like…”

“No.” Phillip finally meets his eyes. “I don’t mean your house. I’m leaving New York.”

A stunned silence descends. Phillip looks away from Barnum’s shocked gaze, opting for his coffee instead. “But… _why?_ ” Barnum finally asks. “You’re… _why?_ ”

“My father has made his intentions clear.” Phillip doesn’t look up. “If I take part in your show, if I’m even _seen_ with you, he will bring you to court on charges of sodomy. With his credibility in the community, you won’t stand a chance. I won’t bring that ruin on you and your family.”

He hears the soft _clink_ of Barnum’s mug against the stonework. When he looks up Barnum’s gaze is far off, as if he’s cast off what moors him to the present. His fingers have gone limp. He shakes his head, opens his mouth, then shakes his head again.

“You’re… _leaving._ ”

“As soon as possible.” Phillip swallows. “I have a meeting scheduled tomorrow with an old friend – a very influential man in the theatre business.”

“You’re not using yourself to…I mean, is he one of your…”

“No, he’s _not_.” Then, “I thought he might be able to help me devise a plan to snare some upper-class revenue. It hasn’t been easy doing what you hired me to do – I think you underestimated your own scandal.” Phillip tries to laugh. “If I can set something up with this man I can leave you with something to show for my employment, and maybe he can help me get back on my feet in the theatre industry.”

Barnum shakes his head again. He won’t go quietly, that’s obvious. But Barnum never does. “I’m sorry,” Phillip says softly. “I know it’s not what you want to hear.”

“Damn straight.”

“What can I do to ease the transition? You probably don’t need more money at this point, but connections, networking…anything I can do…”

Barnum raises his mug to his lips, then sets it down without drinking. “Here’s what you can do,” he says. “Let me go nine rounds with your father. However it turns out, I think I deserve that much.”

“P.T., I can safely say that at the moment he’d rather see your ass than your face.”

“That can be arranged.”

“You wouldn’t…”

“He’s threatened me, my circus, my friends, and my family. He’s lucky if he gets my ass and not my fist.”

“Please keep your fists out of it,” Phillip says, struggling to sound calmer than he feels. “Your ass, too.” The sober thought of leaving the circus is like a bubble expanding inside him, threatening to blow him apart from the inside. The thought of Barnum adding assault to the charges of sodomy is more like the implosion of the whole world. “Obviously I can’t stop you from doing what you feel you need to do, but try to remember how powerful my family is. It would help if you’d let me go with you.”

“You had your turn.” Barnum’s hair is washed red by the rising sun; Phillip has to squint against the diffuse radiance. “I work best alone.”

“Then you shouldn’t object to me leaving.”

“Did you really think I’d take that sitting down? I was born fighting for every meal, every lump of coal…”

“I know that.” Phillip swirls the coffee in his mug. “To tell you the truth, P.T., I’m not sure I’d want to stay even if my father allowed it.”

He says it so calmly he can’t believe it came out of his own mouth. “Are you telling me you’re leaving regardless?” Barnum’s voice is hard. “Is that what you’re saying, Phillip?”

“I guess so,” Phillip says hopelessly. “I just…there are too many memories for me here. Too many bad memories, too many faces I’d be ashamed to see. And after this…”

“You’re running away.”

“I’m…”

Barnum slaps his knee, roughly. It’s so startling Phillip almost drops his mug over the railing. It’s not a friendly swat, the type Barnum exchanges with his performers in passing. It…hurt. “You listen to me,” Barnum says, his voice low and dangerous. “I’ve had enough.”

“P.T.…” Phillip unconsciously leans away.

“This is no way to live. You run away now, you’re going to end up in the same gutter, different city. Don’t give me that bullshit about a fresh start. The only fresh start people get is inside themselves. Until you can face what you’ve done and who you are, you’ll never find a good place to land.”

“I _can’t_ ,” Phillip shouts suddenly, and this time it’s Barnum who rears back. “I can’t be this person. I…can’t face it.”

“But this is who you’ve become. You _have_ to face it. You’re a sodomite. You’re an adulterer. You’re a drunk and a degenerate and hell, I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone as creatively debauched as you. But you’re also a big brother to my daughters, a friend to my wife, and when it comes to having you at my circus…” Barnum’s jaw works. “You belong there,” he says shortly. He looks away, and his voice cracks a little. “You're a good man, and I want you there.”

For a few minutes neither of them speaks. Their breaths fan out into the air like misty puffs of smoke, tinted an ephemeral pink, and Phillip thinks of the bathwater and that twist of rose between his thighs. _Dragon_ , he thinks suddenly. _Can I beat it? Am I still a white knight, or is it too late?_

“He’s usually at home for lunch.” He speaks heavily, resigned to Barnum’s unflinching will. “Bring a battering ram. _I_ almost didn’t get in, and he was waiting for me.”

“Phil, I thought you knew me by now.” Barnum tosses the remains of his coffee on the lawn. He's smiling, but it's grim. “I _am_ the battering ram.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I was listening to some more 3 Doors Down, and their song "Heaven" just seemed to fit Phillip in the context of this story. Give it a listen if you get the urge and let me know what you think!
> 
> Next chappie up Monday, June 10th.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Barnum does business with Phillip's father.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I was going to post this (and more) for Monday, but then realised this was already a chapter in and of itself. So I'll post another chapter sometime this Monday (because fairness, you know), but in the meantime here's some of what you've been waiting for!

The butler’s expression says it all.

Barnum grinds his cane on the stonework, feeling that internal spring of anxiety wind tighter and tighter. He remembers a time when butlers were several rungs above him on the social ladder, men whose eyes he didn’t dare meet. Even now he struggles to keep his head high and his gaze bold.

_I am not a drudge._

“Master Carlyle isn’t expecting you.” The butler surveys him coolly. “He is taking lunch with the mistress.”

Barnum’s fingers tighten on the cane. “I’m sure he will forgive the intrusion,” he says. “Considering I’m here on behalf of his son.”

“The master is unavailable,” is the only reply.

Barnum takes a step forward, using his considerable height to cast an ominous shadow. “If the master is physically present, I guarantee he will make himself available in the next two minutes. The only question is whether or not you make yourself an obstacle.”

“Sir, I will call for the police.”

“Without informing your master?” Barnum pushes past, using his shoulder to flatten the butler against the wall. “Awfully presumptuous for a man who opens doors for a living.”

The anger fuels him all the way down the hall. The butler hurries to catch and then pass him. “Mister P.T. Barnum,” he announces with only the slightest edge of fluster. “I apologise, sir, he wouldn’t wait.”

Theodore Carlyle sits with his wife, cuffs loosened and fork in hand. Their eyes meet. With a cold thrill Barnum sees the butler’s distain in the elder Carlyle’s face, blistering and dagger-sharp. “Mister Barnum,” Theodore says coldly, setting down his fork. “I see now where Phillip has picked up his habit of bursting in at unseemly hours.”

“Oh, forgive me, is this when Judas gets paid? If so, I can come back.”

Theodore’s hand clenches on the table. “I thought my son would have made it clear you’re not welcome,” he says through stiff lips.

“He made it perfectly clear. In the presence of a lady, I decline to make clear what you can do with your welcome.” Barnum turns to Edna Carlyle, who is staring at him with an expression of refined bewilderment. He doffs his hat. “Phillip’s mother, I presume. A pleasure.”

“Indeed, Mister Barnum.” She glances at her husband, and Barnum can’t help admiring the swift return of her self-possession. “I must admit, I’ve been anxious to meet the philanderer who bewitched my son.”

“I can’t take credit for bewitchment, ma’am. The art of sorcery is one in which, regrettably, I am unschooled.”

“Along with nearly every other art, I imagine,” Theodore murmurs, a dark smirk gracing one corner of his mouth.

With a _whoosh_ the old fire of rage and shame reignites in Barnum’s chest. “I’m accomplished enough to recognise your son’s talent,” he shoots back as humiliation sears a hot swathe up his neck. “If you would come and see him for yourself instead of reading that wet rag Bennet calls a paper…”

Edna clutches at her throat, and Barnum wants to find her shock absurd but can’t. She looks genuinely devastated by his suggestion, as if he has invited her to watch them copulate on the front steps of the circus.

“How dare you suggest my wife show herself at your circus?” The tendons stand out on Theodore’s neck. “I will say this for you, sir: you have remarkable nerve.”

“A compliment from the great Theodore Carlyle? I’m flattered.”

“Don’t be. I have seen street dogs show the same nerve stealing a scrap of meat.” Theodore waves him off. “I have nothing to discuss with a man such as yourself. Gerard, show him to the door.”

“He couldn’t stop me from getting in. He’s certainly not going to force me out.” Barnum taps his cane sharply against the floor and Theodore jerks as if struck. “You have two options. Either we retire to another room to talk, or we’ll have it out here. And when I say we’ll have it out, I mean _all_ of it.”

Theodore’s eyes flick to his wife, quietly alarmed. “Theodore,” she says, her eyes on Barnum, “what’s going on?”

“Oh, you don’t know?” Barnum makes a show of surprise. “I find that fascinating. Would you like to know where your son is at this moment?”

“Enough, Barnum,” Theodore grinds out.

“Phillip is at my house. You see, he was recently subjected to punitive measures. Measures that left him, for a time, unable to walk.” Barnum twitches away from the butler’s hand on his elbow; the next time he’s touched, that elbow will go in someone’s gut. “I found him yesterday morning at the docks, barefoot, wrapped in a blanket, and drunk. I had to carry him to my carriage.”

Theodore stands so fast his chair barks across the floor. “Barnum.”

“He was struck so many times his back and chest have turned black. His jaw was almost broken. And if I had a mind, I could use this cane to demonstrate the climax of the disciplinary action.” Barnum raps it on the floor again, looking at Theodore. “Shall I, sir?”

For a moment electricity crackles between them. The hair on Barnum’s nape stands to attention, the way it does in a lightning storm. “Very well, you have your audience,” Theodore says finally. “Gerard, show him into the study.”

“Theodore…” Edna looks at her husband, her handsome face pale.

“Later, my dear.” He touches her hand. “Phillip is fine, I saw him myself the night before last.”

Edna looks at Barnum, as if hoping for confirmation. For a moment he sees something in her eyes reminiscent of Charity. A mother’s look, perhaps, fearful and furiously helpless. “Ma’am,” he says, touching his hat to his breast. “I can give Phillip your love, if you wish.”

She turns her face away. “My regards,” she says hollowly. “I think my love does no good.”

Dark furniture and creamy paintings bask in the study’s midday light, somehow lavish in their understatement. The butler closes the doors on them with a soft snick, and Barnum suddenly wonders if this is what it would be like to be trapped in Benjamin Hallet’s study.

“Well, sir.” Theodore gestures at an armchair. “You might as well sit.” Conspicuously, he neglects to offer him a drink.

“I think not.” Barnum’s fingers threaten to distort the rim of his beloved top hat. “What I have to say is better said from my feet.”

“Say it, then.”

“How could you?” The words tumble from his lips. “He’s your _son_.”

Theodore laughs, a rusty sound. “Do you have sons?” he asks.

“Daughters.”

“I pity you. Now pity me. To have a son is to have God’s judging eyes on your soul.”

“From what I hear, there’s quite a bit to be judged.”

“And not in you?” Theodore smiles unpleasantly. “How does he look at you, this son of mine? With love? Respect? Worshipfully, as if he would polish the very ground you walk on?” He waves dismissively. “So he looked at me, once.”

Barnum’s brows draw together.

“A boy naturally wants a hero. But we are none of us heroes. We are mortals, with our sins and our lusts. You’ll fall as surely as you stand, and when you do he will turn on you.”

“He won’t have to. You betrayed your family. You abandoned them, hurt them. I could never do that.”

Theodore laughs again. It’s like the smell of an impending storm on the wind, and a shiver dances up Barnum’s spine. “Do you think so? What a paragon of selfless virtue I have before me. Tell me, sir, when you crouch over my son in the sawdust, do you look up to heaven and thank God he didn't make you like me?”

“I have never laid a hand on your son. I’ve never so much as _thought_ about it. Are you deaf or just obtuse?”

Theodore looks him up and down. For a moment there’s a flicker of doubt in his eyes, but it quickly vanishes. “I find it hard to believe he would associate with you for any other reason,” he says dryly. “I’ve heard of the coarse, unbridled appetites of common labourers. No doubt he took that into consideration when choosing you.”

Barnum can feel disbelieving laughter bubbling up inside him. “Oh yes,” he says, “the unquenchable virility of middle-aged men is the first resort of lustful young bucks.”

“You mock me, sir?”

“Openly. Repeatedly, if necessary.”

Theodore turns, picking up a folded newspaper from the sideboard. Barnum has just enough time to see Bennet’s now-infamous article before it strikes his cheek with a resounding _crack._ “You will learn not to do that, sir,” Theodore snaps. “As my son learned.”

Barnum’s vision distorts, and not from the blow. Before he can stop himself he has a fist in Theodore’s shirt, propelling him back against the wall. Not until his other fist is cocked above his ear does he realise what he is about to do.

“Do it.” Theodore’s voice is a cologned whisper. His eyes glitter. “Strike me. You will pay for it a hundredfold.”

Air seethes through Barnum’s nostrils. With an enormous effort he brings to mind his family, smiling and happy, safe. He can’t afford vengeance. It would ruin them. Slowly he lowers his fist.

His breathing is heavy, as if he’s just finished a rollicking musical number. He turns, and his agitated pacing takes his feet across a long, splintered stain on the carpet. He stops, perplexed at the anomaly in this perfect room.

“Phillip did that.” Theodore’s voice is clipped, scornful. “He has a temper, that boy, when he drinks.”

Maybe alcohol just unleashes the passion Phillip tries so hard to hide. Barnum lifts his head and sees for the first time the hole in the wall opposite. “I assume he did that too,” he says, jerking his chin.

“He didn’t appreciate the thrust of our conversation.”

“Well,” Barnum says, turning, “neither do I. You’ll drive Phillip from my circus over my dead body.”

“That _would_ be the way I would prefer to do it. Alas, duelling has long been outlawed in this state.”

"What will it take to free Phillip, you sadist?”

“You make it sound as if I have him locked in a cage.”

“A golden cage. With the door welded shut.”

“Better a cage than a whorehouse. You will destroy him in that den of yours.”

“ _Destroy_ him?” Barnum asks incredulously. “I’m the one who’s _saving_ him. He’s drinking less, his body is his own, he’s enjoying his life for once…my God, if you could hear him _sing_ …”

“You can’t change my mind, Mister Barnum,” Theodore cuts him off sharply. “I know what you are, and it is despicable to me.”

“What if I do like your son and threaten to out the truth about your affair? What then?”

“Then I will have you charged with sodomy. We have one another in a deadlock, Mister Barnum; any attempt to break it by force will be disastrous for all.”

“Money,” Barnum says, grasping now at straws. “I’ll pay you. What's your price?”

Theodore smiles coldly and turns away. “I am _made_ of money,” he says. “And you are made of the dirt they will bury me in.”

The words hit him like a slap across his soul. “Why do you despise me?” Barnum demands, takes an impulsive step forward. “I’m a man, no more or less than you. All I want is a face I can show under the sun.”

Theodore heads for the door and Barnum follows him, raising his voice. “Is that too much to ask? Do you get pleasure from grinding your heel into my face? Or Phillip’s?”

Theodore lays a hand on the doorknob. “Are you finished, Mister Barnum? Or must I endure more of your theatrics?”

“Those men are still out there.”

“Yes, mere hirelings. They will not attack without payment.”

“Is that what lets you sleep at night? What about the one who raped him? Don’t you even care that your son’s violation earned him his supper?”

Theodore tenses. “That was not planned,” he grinds out. “Those men took it much farther than I intended.”

“And you’re willing to leave it there?”

“I _cannot_ retaliate,” Theodore snarls, bristling with sudden anguished fury. “It is part of the contract. If I attempt any sort of revenge - if they have the slightest indication that it came from me - my dealings with those men will become public.” His eyes blaze. “Do you not think I _want_ to bring that man to justice? You think your station in life is so deplorable – think of what I have to lose if I appeal to the courts. Think of Phillip's honour…honour I watch you violate...”

He breaks off, shaking his white head, and looks away. “You wait,” he says throatily. Barnum feels unwilling tears spark in his eyes; angrily, he dashes them away. “You wait until one you love rejects you in your shame. You wait until their eyes fill with revulsion, and see how you behave. See how long you act as a noble man should.”

After a minute, Theodore jerks open the study door. “I am helpless,” he says. “Don't ask me to do what cannot be done. My very position limits me.”

Barnum feels his pulse quicken in that familiar surge of anticipation, that transcendent moment when the circling and stalking yield a target. “Is _that_ all?” he says with belying calm, folding his hands over the head of his cane. They tremble. “I think that could be amended, for a price.”

Theodore pauses at the open door. They look at each other, measuring the distance, judging the leap. Slowly, Theodore shuts the door again. The sliver of hallway disappears.

“You have my attention,” he says.

* * *

Twenty minutes later they emerge from the study. Barnum works his gloves back on, hiding his scarred knuckles in the soft leather. “Tomorrow night,” he says as Theodore follows at his heels. “I’ll do my part, as agreed. And you will send Phillip the letter.”

“As agreed.” Theodore looks haggard, and yet there is something hauntingly triumphant in the long lines of his dignified face. “Do not fail me, and I won't fail you. You have my word as a gentleman.”

“As you have mine.” Barnum turns his back on those mocking eyes because he can’t face them, no, he _can’t_ , and for a moment he thinks of Phillip and

_God’s judging eyes_

everything he and Theodore Carlyle have in common.

“A pleasure, sir,” he says curtly, replacing his hat on his head. “You’ll hear from me.”

“Gerard, show him to the door.” His business done, Theodore brushes Barnum off like the stain in his study. _Get that out, its presence in my home is unseemly._ Barnum wonders anew what he’s done, what he’s agreed to, if this is his fate, to make deals with elite devils for what he wants, and if he will ever be able to tell Charity.

He’s walking through the polished foyer when Edna Carlyle emerges from a side room, her hands clasped together. “Thank you, Gerard, I will see Mister Barnum out,” she says in a tone that hints she has never known disobedience.

The butler bows and leaves, his smart footsteps clipping against the floor. “Ma’am,” Barnum says quickly, doffing his hat again. “Is there something I can do for you?”

“Yes.” She stands tall, not nearly as tall as him but with a serene grace that he envies. “My son is at your home, you say?”

“He is. I assure you, he is as comfortable as we can…”

“And your wife knows?”

Barnum pauses. He sees the grief of conviction behind her stoic mask. “I’m not trying to deny that Phillip has had clandestine affairs in the past,” he says earnestly. “But I will deny to my dying day that he’s having one with me.”

“Are you at least treating him well?” Edna’s clasped hands tighten. “He tells me nothing – ever – but I think – I feel he has suffered. I don’t want to think that he is suffering now. That you do not treat him…if not with tenderness, at least…with consideration.”

Her blind belief is so overwhelming that it staggers him. “Ma’am,” Barnum says, helpless to do anything but continue his protest, “I wish there was something I could say to convince you. To my knowledge Phillip has not been involved with _anyone_ since joining my circus.”

He stops short of mentioning Anne. This is neither the time nor the place. “You didn’t answer my question, Mister Barnum.” Edna tilts her face up; she must have been beautiful in her youth, with that natural calm and soulful eyes. “Is Phillip safe with you?”

If her mind is going to be put at ease, it will be on her terms and no one else’s. Barnum reaches past their shared pain for the simplest truth he can find and offers it with a gentle smile. “I have tried to be as good to him as I know how,” he says sincerely. “God knows I’m a distracted man. But he smiles more than he used to. And if I have my way, he’ll be doing that more often.”

Edna tilts her head, reading him. Slowly, something in her softens. “My husband likes to think Michael takes after him,” she says suddenly, without context. “Such an ordered, precise mind.” She smiles a little. “But that’s wishful thinking. What makes Michael an excellent lawyer, he gets from me.”

“Is he here in New York?”

“No. He left to practice in Europe when Phillip’s reputation began to affect his work.”

Barnum tries to picture Caroline and Helen in the same situation and instantly abandons the thought as unbearable. “With all due respect, ma’am, if Michael takes after you then I don’t know where Phillip gets _his_ qualities,” he returns. “I can’t exactly see your husband dancing in a red waistcoat.”

“Can’t you?” She arches one shapely brow. “And who do you think taught Phillip how to suppress it?”

After a moment of silence her face shutters again. “Good day, Mister Barnum. My regards to Phillip, as you promised.”

* * *

“W.D., may I have a word?”

W.D. looks up to see Barnum standing in the doorway. “Sure. What’s up?” he says, sticking a finger in his book. He got it from Frank Lentini's room; the man has more chests of books than he has legs, and W.D. has a standing invitation to loot.

Barnum hesitates, so uncharacteristic of him. “I have a favour to ask,” he says slowly. “It’s wrong of me, and I apologise for that. But you’re the best man I can think of for this.”

W.D. sits up. When Barnum talks like this, pensively and with the weight of the world perched between his brows, W.D. listens. “Anything,” he says. “You know that.”

Barnum nods, straying into the room. W.D.’s sanctum is entirely his own, something he’s never had before. It’s simple, uncluttered. He doesn’t own much. He doesn’t need much. “I found out who raped Phillip,” Barnum says, running a hand along the surface of a rustic table. “His father told me.”

There are about a million questions W.D. wants to ask at this point. He holds back every one of them.

“The long and short of it is…” Barnum sighs through his nose, like he’s trying to expel something that just won’t go. “I’m going to find this man, and then I’m going to hurt him. My way, but still, it has to be done.” He looks closely at W.D. “Am I shocking you yet?”

W.D. keeps his expression neutral. “’Course not,” he says.

“Good.” Barnum taps his fingers on the table a few times. “I need someone at my back. Not to get his hands dirty – that’s all on me. Just to make sure my family still has a husband and father at the end of it.”

W.D. gets up, leaving the book on the bed. He rummages in his chest of possessions and brings out a five-inch blade. “Think that’ll do the job?” he asks, tilting it so it catches the light.

“Only if absolutely necessary.” Barnum presses down on his wrist, and the knife dips. “The only justification I can give is that I’m cleaning up one man’s mess in order to clean up another man’s mess. Does that make sense to you?”

It does, precisely. W.D. doesn’t need a full explanation to know that Phillip’s father has screwed Barnum over in some way, and that Phillip is at the heart of it. “When do we do it?” he asks, testing the blade’s edge with his thumb. Sharp, the way he remembers it.

“Tomorrow night. We’ll go from here. Don’t spread this around. Just let people know, if they ask, that justice is being served and they should keep their mouths shut.”

W.D. nods. “Good enough,” he says, placing the knife back in the chest. “You gonna sleep tonight?”

Barnum clasps W.D.’s shoulder tightly. At times like this he looks every day of his forty-three years and then some. “Now I will,” he says. 

* * *

Anne is sitting alone in front of the small mirror in her room. It’s dull, scratched, but it can’t hide the beauty of the woman who uses it. W.D. leans against the doorframe and watches her brush out her luxurious hair. Mama used to do it for her all those years ago. Anne’s hair is finer than theirs, smoother and straighter and silkier.

“You still love him, Annie?” he asks without preamble. She’s not startled; they’ve both developed the skill of constant alertness from their days on the run.

After a second she looks up. “Yes,” she says simply. Her despair is neatly contained in that one word, like fluid in a blister, but if it bursts it will all go running out and leave behind a stinging sore.

“He said some pretty awful things.” W.D. watches her almost curiously. “You want a man like that? To hear him tell it, he’s had half the women in the state and then some of their husbands.”

“You heard the other things he said too. He’s been hurting, W.D. Maybe almost as much as we have.”

“The most I know about hurt is how fast it goes around.” W.D. shrugs. “But if you love him, then what I’m gonna do is right.”

“What do you mean?”

“Barnum’s gonna serve it to the bastard who got Carlyle, and he wants a man at his back. I said yes. Not hard to say that to Barnum, but it’s not just him, is it?”

Anne’s face pales. “You don’t have to do that for me,” she says, fingers twisting around her hairbrush. “I could never be with Phillip, and that’s a fact. Nothing you do can change that.”

“That wasn’t my promise. Anyone you _love_ , Anne. That’s what I said.”

There’s a long silence. Then Anne says, low and soft, “Well, you can’t let Barnum go alone, anyway.”

W.D. nods and raps the doorframe. “That’s what I thought,” he says. He straightens and goes to her, dropping a kiss on the top of her head. “Don’t think about it too much ‘til it’s done. It’ll just get you worrying.”

“I won’t think about it too much _after_ it’s done either.” Anne’s eyes are forlorn and strange. “Take care, and take care of _him_. It’s the least he does for us.”

“I know it.” W.D. looks at himself in the mirror, and a sigh works its way out of his chest. “Protecting a white man so he can beat up a white man to save a white man from another white man,” he mutters. “Shit. Don’t remember _that_ being in the contract.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Onward we go, my lovely followers! Big chappie coming up!


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Phillip's meeting doesn't go well and neither does Barnum's night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Violence and implications of abuse at the end of the chapter. If you think you'll be triggered by this, please exercise caution.
> 
> Whew, just got this in as Monday draws to a close here in my little apartment! I wanted to get it posted earlier in the day, but this one was a beast. Also, just so people are aware who may not be, this week has seen 2 chapter updates: 13 and now 14.

That night after supper they go for a walk under the trees of a country lane. The girls bounce and dance around Barnum, trying to draw him into their games, and eventually his odd pensiveness gives way to the usual capers. Phillip and Charity walk behind them, her arm slipped into his. She laughs openly at her family’s antics, her steps measured to accommodate Phillip’s limping pace.

“Look at him.” She shakes her head as father and daughters almost tumble into a bush. “I used to worry he would grow up and forget all about magic and dreams.”

Looking at him tonight Phillip thinks there’s a part of him that’s always been grown up and a part that never will be. “Something’s bothering him,” he muses. “I know it’s because of my father, but he won’t talk to me about it.”

“Give him time. He’ll work through it, whatever it is.” They walk in silence for a few steps. “How are you feeling?”

Phillip considers the question. Every movement still produces a deep throb, and walking, not to mention sitting, is uncomfortable. But he can feel himself beginning to tip back toward healing – physically, anyway. “Not bad,” he says. “Thank you for today. I’m sorry to be an intrusion on your home.”

“Phillip, you don’t know how much I welcome the company. With Phineas and the girls gone most of every day I don’t have much to do. It was easier when we lived in a tenement. At least then I had neighbours I could talk to, housework to keep me busy…”

There’s no self-pity in her tone, only genuine wistfulness. It _has_ been an enjoyable day, come to think of it. Charity gently but persistently distracted him from his morbid thoughts, showing him the place for her spring garden, keeping him company in the long afternoon hours – she with her household accounts, him with Barnum’s woefully neglected business receipts – and, when the girls came home, placing them and their homework in his capable hands.

 _She misses you_ , he thinks suddenly, watching Caroline and Helen desperately vie for every moment with their father. _You belong at the circus, too, but don’t forget you have a beautiful family at home. Nobody can take your place – not me, not anyone._

“Charity.” Phillip speaks in a moment of rare courage. “You told me you knew my mother when you were younger.”

“Just a little. She and my mother were social acquaintances.”

“You knew me to look at me?”

“The little boy with the serious eyes?” Charity smiles at him. “Yes, I knew you.”

“What about when I grew older?”

Charity sobers. “A little,” she repeats.

Phillip watches their shoes cross the pebbles strewing the lane. He’s not sure how to phrase this. “Did you follow my career?” he finally asks.

“Which one?”

Phillip’s chest tightens. “Ah,” he says, “I thought as much.”

“The rumours reached me, though not to the extent they might have. You have to remember, by that time I was married to Phineas and embroiled in my own scandal.”

“You knew enough, though. Enough to think twice about being seen in my company if the opportunity arose.”

“The lowly Mrs. Barnum in the company of a lofty Carlyle?” she teases. “My oh my, what a scandal _that_ would have been for you.”

Phillip ducks his head and laughs. “I guess I’m just wondering why you didn’t warn P.T. about me,” he admits.

“I did.” Her amusement and sadness mingle poignantly. “Not the specifics, but I told him your reputation.”

“I guess your warning came too late.”

“Not at all. We were at one of Caroline’s recitals when he first saw you. You remember that night at the Sattler Auditorium? Your parents were there; it was a highly-touted charity event.”

Now a vague memory niggles at Phillip’s mind. He doesn’t remember much of the actual ballet and nothing of the afterparty; it’s all an apathetic, alcoholic blank. He does remember receiving the invitation. He should; he impaled it to the wall with a letter-opener.

“I remember now.” He keeps his gaze averted. “I had a little…overreaction to going.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, I had an event planned that night with a…friend.” He coughs.

“I see.”

“So how did I come up? Were you discussing New York’s top ten ineligible bachelors?”

“Actually, it was Phineas who noticed you.” Charity nods at her husband, who is swinging a daughter from each arm. “I have no idea what prompted him to pick you out of the crowd. Gut instinct, maybe; we both know Phin has an uncanny nose for trouble.” She nudges him playfully.

“That baffles me,” Phillip says honestly, wishing now he could remember that evening. It seems perverse to remember nothing of the night that changed his whole life. “I can’t remember a thing. Was I drinking when he saw me?”

“Phillip, I think you were drinking the whole night,” Charity says gently.

He flushes.

“I didn’t think it would amount to anything,” Charity adds reflectively. “Phin’s mind is like a whetstone, shooting off sparks in a hundred different directions. So when he came home the next week and announced he had hired you, I was a bit surprised to say the least.”

“Not angry?”

“I don’t tell Phineas whom he can and can’t hire. That’s his area of genius, not mine. I find it more productive to channel the torrent than to try to stop it.”

“But surely you had concerns.”

“If I’m being honest? Yes, I did. Not because I thought Phineas would be unfaithful, but because of the stereotypes associated with people like yourself. I’m not immune to biases, I’m sorry to say. But I’ve also learned the pitfalls of hearkening to society gossip. I was willing to meet you before making a final judgement.”

“Thank for you that,” Phillip murmurs. “I wish I could have repaid your kindness.”

“You have, tenfold.” Charity squeezes his arm. “I would do it all over again if I had to. You’re not the monster you think you are. For one thing, your mistakes are not irredeemable. As for your inclinations, God didn’t make me your judge. It doesn’t make any difference to me one way or another. I know who you are.”

“Who am I?”

Charity smiles. “A man who’s about to be run over by my daughters,” she says, and he looks up.

He holds out his arms to Caroline and Helen, and they embrace him happily, tender of his wounds. 

* * *

They all go into town together the next morning. Caroline and Helen seem to regard Phillip’s presence as a terribly exciting development. The first five minutes of the train ride are split between an argument about who gets to sit on which side of Phillip, who gets to talk to him the most, and Charity’s exasperated arbitration.

For his part Barnum is mostly silent. His expression is oddly subdued, a holdover from the previous evening. Preoccupation is normal for him, but usually it’s accompanied by excitement, not this broody withdrawal. Phillip is about to ask about it when Helen shrieks and points out the window.

“It’s _huge!_ ” she squeals.

“What?” Caroline demands, crowding in. “What is?”

Phillip bites back a yelp as she jostles him. “Caroline!” Charity nips at her daughter’s dress with her fingers. “Be careful.”

“Sorry.” Caroline frantically pans back and forth, seeking the source of the excitement. “What was it, Helen?”

“A big bird.” Helen’s eyes are as round as twin moons. “The biggest I ever saw.”

“I missed it,” Caroline moans, slumping in disappointment. “I _always_ do.”

“What do you think it was?” Helen asks, turning to her father. When he doesn’t respond, she turns to Phillip. “What do _you_ think it was?”

“What colour was it?”

“Brown.” Having given this imprecise description, Helen waits expectantly.

Phillip glances out the window. The station is coming up, leaving the countryside behind. “It could be an eagle, I suppose,” he says. “Maybe a pelican.”

Helen turns back to the window in mute awe. Barnum doesn’t seem to notice.

They disembark at the station and are instantly swept up in the morning chaos. Caroline slips her hand into Barnum’s, pressing against his hip. “Daddy, can we go to the circus today with you and Phillip?” she ventures.

“No, you have to go to school.” Barnum is clearly distracted, though his hand curls instinctively around his daughter’s. “Why don’t you want to go?”

“You look sad today. I thought we could cheer you up.”

Barnum looks startled. “Do I look sad?” he asks, looking at Charity. When she nods, he hitches up his trousers and squats before Caroline. “I’m not sad, I’m just thinking,” he explains. “You know when you have to go onstage and you’re so nervous you can’t think, but you have a lot of things to remember? That’s how I feel right now.”

Caroline puts a hand on his cheek. “Don’t be nervous, Daddy,” she consoles him. “It’ll be over before you know it.”

“What will?” Helen chirps.

“I don’t know. Whatever he has to do.”

Barnum’s crow’s-feet deepen as he smiles. He turns the palm of her hand inward and kisses it. “I feel better already,” he says. He touches Helen’s hair, drawing her in. “There’s no reason for you to miss school, I promise.”

Both girls sigh with resignation. “Come on, girls,” Charity coaxes, taking their hands in hers. She leans over to Barnum, who presses a brief but impassioned kiss to her lips. “Phin!” she gasps when she pulls back. “People are watching.”

“Good. I like showing you off.” Barnum’s glint cheekily. “Enjoy your…women’s group.”

“Don’t mock me, Phineas Taylor. They may be insufferable old ladies but it’s for a good cause.” Charity nods at Phillip. “Take care of yourself, young man. Don’t let this one work you too hard.”

Barnum hails a carriage for them and they ride off. “You could have stayed at the house,” he says as the carriage disappears into the traffic. “I don’t expect you to be back at work so soon. It’s only been two days.”

“I told you, I have a meeting.” Phillip flinches as someone brushes him walking by, and Barnum looks at him concernedly. “Besides, it won’t do any good for me to hi –”

He startles again as a heavy walker clomps past. Barnum places a hand on the small of his back and guides him out of the main flow of traffic. “Come over here,” he says. “Back to the wall.”

Phillip waits miserably as Barnum hails a buggy. He climbs up stiffly, Barnum’s hand on his arm, remembering how he sat on his coat that night as he bled through his trousers. “To the Barnum Circus,” Barnum instructs, and the cabbie _hups_ at the horses.

Phillip doesn’t realise Barnum’s arm is perched protectively over the back of his seat until the buggy pulls up at the circus steps. “Have you been doing that the whole time?” he asks, unable to resist checking for staring bystanders.

“It’s a casual gesture, Phillip.” Barnum pays the cabbie and then hops lightly over Phillip’s legs, turning to offer a supportive arm. “You’re being paranoid.”

“Can we at least agree that my paranoia is reasonable?”

“You really should listen to yourself sometime.” Barnum helps him down. “Besides, I told you I’d take care of it. I’m not going to let you down.”

It’s the most he’s said about his meeting with Theodore Carlyle since it happened. “P.T., I need you to tell me what happened yesterday,” Phillip says. “My father is a tricky man. He has ways of getting the upper hand.”

“You insult me, Phillip.” Barnum replaces his hand on his back, urging him toward the front door. “I’m every bit as duplicitous as the next man.”

“But…”

“Trust me, Phil. I can take care of myself. You just focus on your meeting, okay?”

The sentiment is familiar, and Phillip realises he’s just been dismissed the way Barnum dismissed his daughters. He’s about to object, but then they enter the circus and a sudden desire to avoid his friends seizes him. “I should get ready and walk over,” he says, checking his pocket-watch. “He’s not the kind of man who likes to have his time wasted.”

“That was my impression.” Barnum heads for their office at a clipped pace. “That’s why I invited him here. Angus! How’s that new weight belt working out?”

For a moment Phillip stands slack-jawed as Barnum talks with his performer. Then he hurries over. “You did _what?_ ” he demands, oblivious to Angus’ surprised but pleased greeting. “P.T., _why?_ ”

“I didn’t want you hobbling all over New York like this.” Barnum shrugs, but his nonchalance doesn’t fool Phillip. “It seemed like one of those intrinsically bad ideas, like getting drunk and walking the docks barefoot. Angus, we’ll be running the full routine today, don’t forget your chains.”

Barnum resumes his beeline. “I didn’t give you permission to do that,” Phillip says, pursuing him with some difficulty. “How did you even know who I was meeting? I know I didn’t tell you.”

“Your agenda entries are very precise. I think it’s supposed to be a sign of good character.” Barnum stops long enough to offer Phillip his arm for the stairs. “That would explain why I write shorthand on a sixty-degree slant.”

Climbing the stairs takes it out of him. When he has his breath back he opens his mouth to fire off a retort and stops short.

He feels dizzy. He puts out a hand to steady himself and Barnum has to grab him as he misses the railing. “Phillip,” Edgar Wells says, doffing his hat. He smiles a bit weakly. “Forgive me, I should have warned you. But I was afraid…well. I didn’t know what you might think.”

Phillip chokes. “Where’s Wayne?” he says to Barnum when he gets his breath back. He can’t look at Edgar without a flood of panic washing him under.

“I don’t know. It was my impression he was the one coming.”

“That was his intention.” Edgar clears his throat. “I apologise for the confusion. I’m his partner, and I asked to represent him at this meeting. Edgar Wells, at your service.”

“Phineas Barnum at yours.” They shake hands. “You’ll have to forgive Phillip, he’s unfortunately been the victim of a recent attack.”

Edgar pales. “I’m sorry to hear that.” He looks Phillip up and down, and despite the genuine worry he clearly appreciates what he sees.

Before anyone can speak again Phillip motions to the office. “Let’s sit down,” he says, ignoring Barnum’s questioning look. “Please.”

In their office Barnum positions a chair in front of Phillip’s desk for Edgar. Then he perches on the edge of the desk, hands clasped over one knee. It is only then that Phillip knows this will not go well. “P.T., what are you doing?” he asks in a low voice. “This is private meeting.”

“On the contrary, Phillip.” Barnum’s tone is cool. “This is a circus meeting. And I am the master of this circus.”

His eyes dare Phillip to disagree. Phillip looks at Edgar, hoping for an objection. “I see no reason why Mister Barnum shouldn’t sit in,” Edgar says in his calm, reasonable way, so like him. “After all, he surely has as much stake in you as I do.”

Just like that the temperature in the room climbs five degrees. “Very well,” Phillip says, seeing his defeat but frantically hoping to find a way out. “Of course P.T. is more than welcome. Nothing you or I have to say to one another is private.”

Barnum looks at him knowingly. It sends a flush up the back of his neck, and he eases into his chair with a cringe. After a moment Barnum turns smilingly to Edgar. “So, you’re in the theatre business too,” he says. “From what I’ve seen, it’s a fascinating industry.”

Barnum’s manner, if not his words, is genuine. “Oh yes,” Edgar returns, “it is. I thoroughly enjoy it. That’s where Phillip and I met, in fact – at an afterparty, some four years ago. Wasn’t it, Phillip?”

“Yes,” he manages.

“I recall him saying something like that now,” Barnum muses. “What role did you have then?”

“Oh, I was merely a patron. Wayne was the manager, and Phillip wrote for him before becoming a playwright-manager himself.” Edgar’s eyes meet Phillip’s. “I’ve been following your career, Phillip,” he says softly. “You’ve made quite a name for yourself.”

Phillip murmurs something inarticulate. “Most recently, of course, Phil is my business partner,” Barnum puts in. “He owns ten percent of my circus.”

“Phil.” Edgar laughs a little. “How strange to hear you called that. You were always so serious – so proper.” He hesitates. “I suppose that’s all changed now.”

His light hair has begun to thin at the temples, but his face has not changed and neither has his mellifluous voice. His eyes are bright and melancholy. Phillip struggles to find words, knowing this has become anything but a business meeting – he fears what Barnum will think of what’s left of his professionalism.

Barnum shifts on the desk and it responds with a whinging creak. “Phillip, why don’t you explain to Mister Wells what you have in mind. We can go from there.”

Phillip complies, grateful for the rescue. His plan before the attack was simple: get his new play produced and use it to attract attention to Barnum’s show, perhaps even have some of the more thespian Oddities take roles. Then the revenue could be funnelled into the circus.

With his father’s ultimatum, his plans have been derailed. Now he has to leave town, despite Barnum’s insistence that he can fix things, whatever that’s supposed to mean. Phillip hopes to send the play on tour and expand its appeal, and then…

He explains all this, leaving out his father’s involvement. When he’s finished Edgar taps his fingers thoughtfully against his knee. “Repertory companies are on the decline,” he says. “A single cast is the ticket these days, that and long-running plays. If you’ve got a play that can withstand a long run _and_ bear the burden of a star, then you’ve got a play we can market.”

“I think I do.” Phillip hands over the draft. “It’s almost finished, I’ve just got a few pages to go.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem. Wayne has confidence in you. As do I.” Edgar’s eyes flick to him, then back down to the front page. His brows rise, and he flips it, reading the second.

At last, halfway through the fourth, he puts it down. “I’m biased,” he says. “I’ll be the first to admit that. But Phillip – you’ve never written anything like this.”

“Is it good?”

“It’s fantastic.” Edgar looks at Barnum. “Are you the muse, sir?”

If there is any jealousy in his voice, Phillip can’t detect it. “I don’t think so,” Barnum says in a rare moment of modesty. “If it’s magic, I don’t control it.” He glances at Phillip and smiles. _I told you_ , his expression says.

Phillip looks down, his heart thrilling with bittersweet joy. “There’s just one thing I don’t understand,” Edgar says with a slight frown. “If you’re planning to leave town with your play, how is it benefiting Mister Barnum? Surely he can’t spare performers to go with you.”

“No, he can’t.” Phillip takes a deep breath and meets Edgar’s eyes. “I want to sell him the rights. That way, his name will be on it, and whatever success it garners will be his.”

There’s a stunned silence. “Phillip.” Edgar clears his throat. “I don’t think you realise what you have here. This play…this could be the making of you. To sell it off to _anyone_ …”

“It’s not to just anyone.” Phillip looks at Barnum, who is speechless. “It’s no more than he deserves. And I know it will be safe in his hands. There’s only one condition: it _must_ be marketed as an anonymous work.”

Now Edgar is as white as a sliver of moon. “Phillip,” he says, “this is professional suicide.”

“Neither my name nor my influence can be associated with the circus in any way. It’s not the way I want it, it’s the way things have to be.” Phillip holds Barnum’s gaze, feeling a lump form in his throat. “It’s the best I can do for you. God knows it’s nowhere near what you’ve done for me.”

Barnum looks down, his throat working. “It’s very generous of you, Phillip,” he says in a low voice, “but I can’t…”

“Please. I want you to.”

Barnum sighs. His finger traces a crack in the desk. “This isn’t over yet,” he insists. “I told you I have things under control. You won’t have to leave town.”

“And I told you it doesn’t only depend on… _that_. I need a change. I need…I need…”

Barnum’s lips purse when Phillip doesn’t go on. “And you?” he asks Edgar. “What do you have to say about this? Surely you won’t want a man like me tangled up in your business.”

Edgar looks between the two of them. “If Phillip wants it that way, I think Wayne will be more than amenable,” he says slowly. “Certainly there are plenty of good managers and directors who would jump at the chance to produce something like this.”

Barnum nods. Edgar shifts his gaze back to Phillip, that old longing still there, though muted and subdued. “In truth, Phillip, Wayne and I have another proposition for you,” he admits. “In light of your determination to leave town, it may be even more pertinent.”

He hesitates, running his hand over his thigh, then clasps his fingers over the brim of his hat. “I saw the article Bennet wrote about you. I wanted…I decided I should see a show, just to know what had become of my old friend.” He smiles briefly. “I saw a Phillip Carlyle I never knew. I dragged Wayne back the next night, and he too was astonished by your performance.”

Phillip’s palms have gone clammy. _You were there?_ his mind screams. _And you didn’t tell me?_

“We think, in this sensational new age of the theatre, you could have a future not only writing plays and producing them but acting and singing as well.” Edgar surveys him. “Would you consider signing on as a leading man for our troupe?”

Phillip’s mouth has gone dry. He feels everything in his body go still even as his blood races. “Are you serious?” he hears himself ask. “Is this for real?”

“Mister Barnum has discovered quite a talent.” Edgar nods respectfully at the ringmaster. “Put to use on the stage your talent, energy, and charisma could garner stardom beyond your wildest dreams. I believe it, and more importantly Wayne believes it. He’s been in this business nigh on forty-five years and his instincts are never wrong.”

“But…” Phillip raises his hands helplessly, then looks at Barnum. He can’t find anything else to say. Just that, _but._

Barnum’s eyes are wide and hollow. He looks shocked – and yet there’s something calculating in his eyes. Something that scares Phillip. “I must admit, for all my confidence in Phillip’s abilities I didn’t expect this,” the man says. He gets up and goes to his desk. He takes something out of the top drawer and comes back, tossing it down in front of Edgar. It’s Phillip’s circus contract. “There’s only one thing standing in your way.”

Incredulity frees Phillip’s tongue from its bind. “Are you serious?” he demands again. “You would actually stop me with a piece of paper?”

“You signed it.” Barnum crosses his arms, looking down on Edgar. It’s neither disdainful or hateful. It’s the posture of a man backed into a corner with one round left in his shotgun. “I’m not going to stand in his way. God knows I have no taste for that. But before I release Phillip from his obligations I insist on a couple of conditions.”

“I’m listening,” Edgar says quietly.

“First of all, he’s an intermittent drunk,” Barnum says flatly. “I don’t say that as a strike against his character. I know the reasons for it, and they’re damn good ones. But I absolutely insist you make sobriety a condition of his employment.”

“Wait a minute.” Phillip feels like he’s pinwheeling down a deep well. “You can’t…”

“Secondly, if you’re hoping to resume your prior relationship with him, I insist on some responsibility on your part.” Barnum’s eyes are intense. “You’re aware of the laws in place in this country. I’m not siding with them, but I am concerned. I don’t want to open up the paper and see that Phillip has been arrested on charges of gross indecency.”

“I share your concern,” Edgar says softly. “I understand his family situation is difficult.”

“Yes, it is. As a man who now has a stake in that situation, I have one more condition.” Barnum looks at Phillip. “I demand you wait to sign Mister Wells’ contract until Saturday, the day after tomorrow. You’ll see why when the time comes. Those are my three conditions, and if they’re too hard to meet, I’m afraid you will have to put up with your current contract.”

Phillip wants to be furious. He wants to lash out. But Barnum is well within his rights, both as an employer and a friend, and if in places he _has_ stepped over the line, well, hasn’t Phillip stepped farther? He drops his forehead into his hand, rubbing wearily at his face, and says the only thing he can think of.

“Fine, you win.” 

* * *

After Edgar leaves the office is silent for a long while. Phillip remains with his head in his hand, staring at the contract on the desk. Part of him _is_ angry. Another part of him is grateful, grateful that Barnum cares enough to be intractable. As much as the old feelings are stirring at Edgar’s return, Phillip knows he can’t play the mistress anymore. It’s too precarious, too deceitful, and too much like his father.

He forcefully pushes away thoughts of Anne. He has to do that far too often. He wonders how many times he'll have to do it in the future before it becomes easy, or breaks him.

“I’m sorry, Phillip.” Barnum sounds exhausted, and he drops into the chair vacated by Edgar. “I’m not trying to be judgemental. I just don’t want to see a repeat of what’s been going on.”

“I know.” Phillip speaks to the desktop. “Your intentions are good.”

“I think they are.” Barnum is trying to catch his eye, he can tell. “If you really want to leave, I’ll let you go, even if you don’t agree to my conditions. You know I won’t hold you here against your will, right, Phillip?”

Phillip smiles wanly. “I know that, P.T.,” he says.

“But I think my conditions are pretty fair if it comes to that. You really want to keep getting drunk or to be treated like a second-class lover?”

“I want to say you sound like my father,” Phillip observes. “But you really, really don’t.”

Barnum smiles. “Wells seems like a good enough man,” he says.

“He is.”

“Did he treat you right?”

“Yes. Right up until…well, until he ended it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It was inevitable. When you cheat on one promise, it’s easier to cheat on another. I don’t want it to be true, because part of me still loves him, but I’ve seen it over and over again. I’m not going back to him unless he leaves his wife, and that’s as much for her dignity as for mine.”

Now that he says it out loud he feels the power in it. Barnum nods, gazing at him with the old pride in his eyes. “I don’t envy you your choices,” he says. “But I’m going to do all in my power to make sure they really are yours. That’s all I’m trying to do.”

“And you’re not going to tell me what that entails?”

“Nope.”

Phillip sighs, dropping his head back against his hand. “Come on,” Barnum says, nudging his shoulder. “Go lie down. You look terrible.”

“I’m here, I might as well work.”

“I would rather you rest.”

“Don’t you have some mercantile accounts you were supposed to settle?” Phillip looks up at him, knowing this, of all things, his partner can’t withstand.

Sure enough, Barnum wilts before the threat of their finances. “Well, as long as you’re sitting down,” he hedges, reaching for a thick folder on his desk. “There might be a couple of things needing attention…” 

* * *

It’s dark that night when W.D. meets Barnum on the front steps of the circus. The man is staring at the shredded clouds, lips pursed pensively. “Hey,” W.D. says, mostly so he won’t startle him. He’s not keen on getting decked. “Ready to go?”

“As I’ll ever be.” The strain that has been building in Barnum all day reverberates around him like silent thunder. “Did you bring your knife?”

W.D. shows him the slender sheath tucked into his belt. “Good to go, then.” Barnum cracks his neck. “Let’s get this over with.”

They hail a buggy. W.D. shoots furtive glances at Barnum. The man is hyperalert, his right leg jogging, his hands clenched on his thighs. His jaw is locked so tight it’s a wonder he hasn’t shattered his teeth. “Just out of curiosity.” W.D. speaks low so the cabbie won’t hear. “Are we here for revenge or because you made a shady deal?”

The shape Barnum’s mouth makes can’t be properly called a smile. “I guess you could say it’s both,” he says. “But mostly I made a deal.”

“So what do we get out of it besides satisfaction?”

“Phillip, if we’re lucky.” Barnum taps the cabbie on the shoulder. “Pull over. Wait for us here.”

“That’ll cost you, mister,” the cabbie grumbles, but Barnum has already flicked a few coins onto the front seat. “Take your time, sir, I got all night,” the man says, leaning back.

They walk down the street to a rundown tenement. W.D. keeps a careful watch on their surroundings. His senses are strung tighter than a high wire. This is a bad neighbourhood to be in after dark, no doubt about it.

They stop near the front door. Barnum takes two strips of leather out of his pocket and begins to wind them around the calloused bridges of his knuckles. “I won’t hit him with anything but my fists,” he says in response to W.D.’s look. “But I can’t go home to Charity and the girls with broken hands.”

“You know he’s gonna have a knife. Maybe a gun.”

W.D. doesn’t say it to dissuade Barnum; he just says it because it’s true. Barnum quietly finishes binding his knuckles. “I know,” he says, heavy and resigned. “That doesn’t change anything.”

“So what’s the plan?”

“First we disarm him. Then you stand back and let things run their course. You only step in to save my life.”

“Barnum…”

“That’s the job. If this is all the honour I can take away from this, then I’m damn sure going to take it, W.D.”

W.D. grumbles under his breath but says no more. They make their way to the second floor and stop in front of a pathetically whitewashed door. Barnum raises his fist and knocks, three sharp raps.

There’s a pause. Then a man’s voice calls, “Who is it?”

W.D. looks at Barnum.

“Come on, Goddard, you gonna leave me out here?” Barnum’s voice is suddenly the nasal whine of a diehard wheedler. “Lemme in.”

“Tubble, if that’s you, get the hell out.”

“But I’m hard-up, Goddard. Where’s your Christian feeling?” Barnum bangs on the door, and W.D. has to cover his mouth despite himself. “Come on, lemme in.”

Footsteps approach the door. W.D. can hear Goddard’s breathing on the other side. There’s a faint but distinct _click_. For a moment his brain fails to register the meaning of the sound. Then it hits him like a bolt sliding home. He locks both arms around Barnum’s waist and throws them both hard to the side, taking the impact with a grunt.

Half a second later a slug rips through the door where Barnum’s belly was. W.D. doesn’t wait for a second shot. He releases Barnum and kicks open the door. Goddard rears away from the incoming obstacle, the gun jerking up. W.D. lunges for it. There’s a brief struggle. The gun goes flying across the room and disappears under a rusted woodstove.

Barnum barrels in on W.D.’s heels, pouncing on Goddard like a cat on a ball of yarn. There’s a profusion of cursing and hissing from all parties as W.D. searches their victim by force. “Clean,” he gasps, sitting up. “Bastard.”

“Guard the door.” Barnum scrambles to his feet, backing off a few steps. Goddard finds his feet and shakes himself out. “Remember what I said.”

W.D. closes the door. It won’t latch anymore. “Just hurry up,” he urges. “We’ve made too much noise already.”

Barnum and Goddard stand square to each other. They are nearly matched for height. Barnum is heavier, but Goddard is sinewy, a quick piece of work. “Is it for the young man?” Goddard asks without preamble. “I thought someone might turn up for him.”

“How did you know?”

“You have that look about you. The look of a man whose imagination is killing him by inches.”

The leather creaks slightly in Barnum’s tightening fists. “I’m not here to talk,” he says. “I’m here to do a dirty deed and then never look at you again.”

Goddard shrugs. “All right,” he says, dropping into a fighting stance. “Let’s do business.”

They meet like a clap of thunder. W.D. expects Barnum to take the first hit; he’s surprised a moment later when Goddard resurfaces with a bleeding lip. They go in again. A blow lands in the brutally soft place just below Barnum’s sternum, and W.D. grits his teeth. When he intervenes, it’s going to be more in the region of Goddard’s balls than his face.

The punches are flying hard and fast now, the fighters’ reflexes so quick that few actually land. The animated dreamer W.D. knows as P.T. Barnum has disappeared. In his place is a rough, worn, grim man with nothing but two fists and a mouthful of grit. He fights like he has claws on his knuckles, like he’s lived his whole life backed into a corner, like fighting his way out is the only way he’ll ever eat. Goddard sees this, and an intense look replaces his blank concentration. On another man, W.D. thinks it would be fear.

It doesn’t take as long as W.D. thought it would. After only a couple of minutes Barnum’s final raking strike downs Goddard like a broken sapling. Instantly the ringmaster pins him, straddling him on the floor. Instead of diving right in, however, he takes a moment to roll out his shoulders. The motion is calm, resigned, and in some peculiar way full of regret. “You’re going to beat the shit out of me, aren’t you?” Goddard asks, panting.

“That’s right. The way I figure it, you have shit to spare.”

“What are you waiting for, then?”

“Getting ready to hold my breath,” Barnum growls. “I don’t want to smell what I’m about to do.”

First he breaks Goddard’s nose. He only hits it once, producing a sharp _crack_ and a spurt of blood, before moving on. He blacks both of Goddard’s eyes and cracks a rib in the space of four or five seconds. Then he pays back the gut blow with interest. The efficiency of it would be beautiful if not for the tight, biting look on Barnum’s face. This is hurting him, bruising some soft inner organ that most men pretend they don’t have. There will be furtive symptoms for a while, like peeing blood after a blow to the kidney, nothing anyone but Barnum will be in a position to see.

Over the next three minutes Barnum does as promised and beats the living shit out of Goddard. Even so he’s methodical, careful. Goddard bleeds, sure, but mostly from his nose and mouth; the fractured rib seems to be the worst of the damage. W.D. thinks back to Phillip Carlyle easing down his trousers in the bathroom, and _Lord_ what sweet justice it would be to drop Goddard ass-first over a spiked fence.

When Barnum finally stops he’s fighting for breath. He rolls off Goddard and sits on the floor for a moment, like he’s trying to remember who he is. Then he gets up with dust clinging to his trousers.

“You won’t go near him again.” He speaks flatly. “Not even if you’re paid. Next time, I won’t stop.”

Goddard’s face is smeared with crimson, his mouth bubbling. He laughs, blowing a black blood-bubble. “I could have done worse,” he manages to say. “I could have let my men take him too.”

Barnum’s hands tremble. “I don’t need to hear any more,” he says to W.D. “We’re done.”

"No, you're not." A high, strained voice speaks up suddenly. "With him, you'll never be done."

They turn, startled. A thin young woman stands in the doorway to the other room. She’s retrieved the pistol. A little girl looks around her skirts at them, her eyes big and quiet. No one speaks.

It seems like centuries that they stand there, staring at one another, the pistol aimless and unpoised. Then, slowly, it points at Goddard’s head. The woman’s gaunt face is all bruises down one side, her throat hung with a necklace of dark prints. The girl’s cheek swells with a purple stain.

“Go out by the window.” The woman speaks emotionlessly. “You won’t be seen that way.” She waits, her finger on the trigger, as Goddard stares speechlessly at her. “Sarah loved every moment.”

After a moment, W.D. pushes Barnum toward the window. “Don’t look back,” he says in his ear. “Remember Charity and the girls. Don’t look back. Just keep going.”

They force the window up with a groan of stubborn wood. A rickety metal switchback provides access to the street. Barnum climbs out and W.D. follows him, sparing a single look back. The woman still stands poised to shoot, her daughter clinging to her dirty skirts. The girl has a stuffed circus horse clutched to her heart. _She loved every moment_ , W.D. thinks, and follows Barnum down the stairs.

They’ve barely touched feet to stone when a sharp _crack_ splits the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I for one need to listen to some happy music now. Don't worry, the sun will come out tomorrow! :D
> 
> I am officially not in control of this story anymore. My muse has completely subverted my attempts at a benign rule. I apologise for any feels this may cause.
> 
> Next chapter up Monday June 17!


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is no clear winner between the author and their muse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks, here it is, chapter 15! <3

They make it back to the circus exhausted and cold. Barnum’s eyes are hollow; W.D. knows he’s seeing the bruises on that woman and her child, hearing that final gunshot. “Here,” he says, motioning for Barnum’s hands – anything to distract him. “Let me look.”

Half-heartedly Barnum extends his right hand. W.D. unwinds the leather strip and tips the knuckles toward the light, experimentally palpitating the bones. The swelling has started and there will be deep bruises by morning, but nothing’s cut and nothing’s broken. That’s all a man can ask for.

“The left one hurting?”

“A bit,” Barnum admits. “It’s not bad, though; I lead with my right.”

“Hellfire in those fists.” W.D. passes Barnum his hand. “That’s all I’m gonna say.”

Barnum’s mouth crooks up. He shakes off the other leather binding. Neither of them bothers to pick it up. “I’m tired,” he says. “I’m going home.”

“Remember to keep them moving.” W.D. flexes his own hand demonstratively. “Don’t let ‘em stiffen up.”

“I appreciate it.” Barnum taps his shoulder lightly. “I’m glad it was you at my back tonight.”

W.D. shrugs it off.

“No, I mean that.” Barnum’s eyes are dark. “If you hadn’t stood by me, I would be dead. I wish I could say I’ll repay you, but I’m kind of hoping we’ll never be in that situation.”

“You gave me and my sister a home, a safe place. What I did tonight was the least I could do.” W.D. extends his hand, and Barnum clasps it firmly. “I saved your hide ‘cause it was worth saving.” 

* * *

It’s almost midnight when Barnum finally sets foot in his house. Everything is dark. He toes off his shoes and tosses his hat on a side table, too tired to care. He leaves his coat and jacket draped over the railing and climbs wearily to the top floor.

Instead of going directly to his room, he makes a detour down the hall. Phillip’s door is slightly ajar. He slips inside and stops a couple of feet from the bed, his hands in his pockets. He’s not sure what he’s doing here. Or what he’s waiting for. Still, he doesn’t speak.

Phillip is awake; he can see his blue eyes looking up at him. “You’re late,” the younger man whispers at last, stirring. “What were you doing?”

“Finishing up some paperwork.” Barnum looks down at him. “Go back to sleep.”

“Should I call bullshit on you now or later?” Phillip asks, a thin vein of humour threading his words.

“Later.” Barnum can’t keep the affection out of his tone; he wishes it was easier, getting attached, but it brings with it its own peculiar fear. “I need to get my story straight if I’m going to give details.”

Phillip shifts, and a thick lock of hair falls guilelessly over his forehead. “How long are you planning to keep lying to me?”

“You did it to me for almost four months,” Barnum shrugs. “I figure I’ve got at least that long before I’m obligated to give you the truth.”

“I knew that would come back to bite me,” Phillip murmurs.

“Never trick a trickster.” Barnum smiles. “Dangerous business, that.”

“Can you at least tell me if you’re all right?” Phillip asks as he heads for the door.

“Of course I’m all right. I’m P.T. Barnum.” Barnum pauses in the doorway. “Get some sleep, okay, Phil?”

He thinks he’ll be asleep himself within minutes. He lies awake for a long, long time.

The next morning, the exhaustion takes its toll. As a child Barnum was always roused brusquely by his father long before the clock struck five; the habit was reinforced after he was orphaned, first by the discomfort of the street and then by the stringent routines of the railroad.

After he married Charity he continued to work every day of every week, dawn to dusk and sometimes later. There was no time to sleep in, hardly time to sleep at all if he still wanted to eat and make love to his wife. And if on any particular morning he happened to doze past five o’clock, he would invariably jerk awake with his heart hammering against his ribs, his father’s tense bark in his ear: _Get up, Phineas, or the work will be gone!_

For the first time in his life, he sleeps soundly past five o’clock.

Charity has to practically shout in his ear to rouse him. He moves through his routine like he’s half a step behind in a dance. He cuts himself six or seven times shaving and ends up looking rough around the edges. His eyes remain stubbornly bleary despite several cold smacks of water on his face. Even his clothes seem to have mutinously shapeshifted, creating a maddening bulge where yesterday they hugged a taut abdomen.

It’s like walking up a downslope, entering this day.

Phillip looks up as he enters the dining room, pausing in his task of buttering Helen’s toast. “Oh,” he says, staring at him. “Wow.”

“Enough.” Barnum slouches in the direction of the coffee, pouring himself a cup. The acrid smell twines thornily through his sluggish senses, and he downs the entire cup before pouring himself a second.

“Honey, you have…” Charity points at her neck.

Barnum feels for the tiny wad of tissue stuck to the wound. “I think I lost half a pint of blood down the sink this morning,” he grumbles. “I don’t think it was this bad when Deng impaled me.”

“It could be worse.” Phillip hands Helen her toast. “You could have gotten drunk and run off to join Carlyle Enterprises.”

“When that's funny, I’ll let you know.” Barnum slumps into his chair and lets Caroline pick the bits of tissue off his face. “I’ll be home at the usual time tonight, Chairy.”

“Good to know.” She glances at Phillip, who is pouring juice for the girls. “And you, Phillip?”

“I might be a little late.” He doesn’t look up, and Barnum's heart sinks at his half-hidden expression. “If I don’t show up, don’t worry, I just had something else to do.”

Charity just nods, but her eyes are crestfallen, and Barnum knows why. Phillip is slipping away, and one day they’re going to look up and he’ll be gone like a phantom in a house of mirrors.

The first thing the two of them do in town is stop at the post office. “I’ll just be a minute,” Barnum says, heading for the counter. “Will you be all right?”

“Of course.” Phillip begins browsing the stationary along one wall. “Take your time.”

“Good morning, Mister Barnum.” The balding clerk is jovially cordial. “How are you today, sir?”

“Fantastic,” Barnum lies. “And yourself?”

“As well as can be expected. A telegram for you, sir?”

“Please.” Barnum sneaks a look back at Phillip as the clerk rummages for a form. The young man appears absorbed in the stationary. His furtive glances and tense posture, however, say something different. Supressing a sigh, Barnum turns back to the clerk and forces a smile. “Thank you,” he says, taking the form and the proffered pen.

“Shall I give you a moment?”

“Or three.” Barnum drops a friendly wink. As soon as the clerk turns away he looks back at Phillip. The young man has moved subtly away from the man who has just come through the door, his body language tight and protective. Shaking his head, Barnum bends over the telegraph form.

 _Done_ , he writes. _Send letter._ On the provided line he scrawls Theodore Carlyle’s telegraphic address. Then he lays down the pen with a click. The clerk, who has been keeping one ear open for this sound, promptly leaves what he’s doing.

“Shall I send it ‘post-haste,’ as usual?” he asks, looking over the form.

“That would be excellent.” The clerk cheerfully calculates the cost and Barnum lays the fee on the counter.

“Will that be all for today?”

“I hope so.”

“Before you go, sir, pardon me, but – is that your son?” The clerk indicates Phillip, who has replaced the stationary and is looking up at an ad on the wall. At this angle, the resemblance to himself is startling. “A fine-looking young man.”

Barnum smiles a little. “There’s no relation,” he says. “He’s my colleague.”

“Are you sure, sir? The spitting image, if I may say so.”

“Trust me, if it was true, I’d be happy to own it.” Barnum tips his hat. “Have yourself a good day.”

“The same to you, Mister Barnum.”

They walk the short distance to the circus shoulder-to-shoulder. To avoid the subject of the previous night, Barnum keeps up a steady stream of mindless chatter. When they get there he goes straight up to their office without greeting anyone, contrary to his usual practice. Phillip follows him, but only to drop off one of their accounting books; then he makes himself scarce. _Fine_ , Barnum thinks, settling in with the draft of a new poster. _Make your plans. You can’t sneak off that easily; you’ll be back, and I’ll be here._

Lettie appears in the doorway about an hour later. For a while she just stands there, arms crossed, watching him. He debates ignoring her. Inevitably, he sets down his pencil and looks up. “What can I do for you, Lettie?” he asks with a fake smile.

“You can quit being a showman for one second and level with me.”

Ah, so she knows. “Well, that was a nice chat.” He bends over the poster again. “We must do it again sometime.”

She comes up and leans against his desk. “You want to talk about it?” she asks.

“Not particularly.”

“Well, we’re going to.”

Barnum sighs. “You get on Phillip’s case yet?” he asks. “The way I see it, you have more reason to be upset with him than with me. He ran off drunk in the middle of the night.”

“I already gave him hell for that, don’t you worry.” Lettie surveys his face. “What did you and W.D. do last night?”

The poster is not going well. The Lord of Leeds looks like a duck in a forest fire. Barnum flips it and starts over. “Nothing that got him hurt,” he says evasively, cursing his inability to draw anything resembling a human head.

“No, just something that made your hands useless.” Lettie nods at his fingers as they clumsily grapple with the pencil. “I’ve seen boys piss better designs in the snow.”

Barnum gives a gravelly chuckle. “Thanks, Lettie, that makes me feet about nine feet tall,” he says. “Any other words for me?”

“Yeah. Stop being an idiot.” Lettie plucks the pencil out of his hand. “Oddities trust Oddities. Carlyle learned that the hard way; how are _you_ going to learn it?”

“I’m just trying to protect you all.”

“Mm-hm. And how’s that working out for you?”

Barnum leans back in his chair. “Phillip’s talking about leaving the circus,” he admits, “so I guess not very well.”

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy to see some justice was done.” Lettie lifts one of his hands, holding it carefully between her own. “Yes, I can guess what happened; knuckles don’t lie. But the fact is, that boy won’t let you rescue him no matter what you do.”

“I don’t get it. I’m offering him what he wants, aren’t I? I’ve bent over backwards trying to fix things and they just seem to get worse.”

“Well, there's the male problem in a nutshell.” Lettie gives him a look. “The deeper you dig yourself in with his family the further he’s gonna run. You may be his way out, but he needs a reason to take it.”

“I thought I gave him that reason.”

“Yeah, and he’s grateful enough for it. Grateful enough to keep you safe.” Lettie sighs. “I’ve never seen anybody need freedom the way Carlyle does. But I’ve also never seen anybody’s father get so far inside their head. Whatever you did, Barnum, it was a good thing, but that’s just leading the horse to water. What’s gonna make Carlyle drink it – God only knows.”

Phillip returns after lunch with a bunch of papers. When he leans over to explain them Barnum smells unfamiliar cologne on his shirt. _Edgar_ , he thinks, but says nothing. It doesn’t necessarily mean what he thinks it means. And if it does, it's none of his business.

“I’m not signing this until you’ve made up your mind about leaving.” Barnum pushes the papers away. It’s the contract for the rights to Phillip’s play; apparently he and Edgar spent the morning drawing it up. “It could be redundant. I have faith it will be.”

Phillip doesn’t protest. He puts the unsigned contract in his desk and sits down to write business letters to potential investors. Barnum watches him like a hawk; he hates sitting in the office all day but he’s not about to let his apprentice out of his sight. Performers occasionally come in to talk to one of them, invariably greeting Phillip with surprise and concern. He was in the day before, it’s true, but he slipped away before lunch without making much of an appearance. He’s good at that, it seems – a troublesome thought.

It’s almost four o’clock before the letter arrives. “Some guy brought this,” Constantine reports, holding it out to Phillip. “Says it’s urgent.”

Phillip takes it, breaking the seal. “It’s from my father,” he says. He draws out a single sheet of paper and peruses it in silence. "You’re right,” he says after a minute, strangely expressionless. “He’s conceding defeat.”

He hands it over. Barnum reads it three times. He can hardly believe it, for all that he insisted it would happen. “I think I’m going to have this framed,” he says finally, shaking his head. “Theodore Carlyle succumbs to the filth of the streets. Could be the headline of an article.”

“Don’t even consider it.” Phillip takes it back and folds it, then places it carefully in the envelope. “Thank you, Constantine. Does the courier require a response?”

“No, just a tip.”

Phillip digs in his pocket and hands over a few coins. “Hold on,” he says suddenly as Constantine turns to go. “Give this to him too.”

He scribbles out a hasty note and tucks it into an envelope, then addresses it. Constantine takes it, and they hear the sound of him hurrying back down the hall.

“Just letting my father know it’s over on my part as well,” Phillip explains. He reclaims his seat with that now-familiar wince. “The last thing I want is a repeat of this debacle.”

“Amen to that.” Barnum studies his apprentice, but Phillip’s expression is neutral. No joy, no pain, no anger. “Are you okay?”

“I am now.” Phillip flashes him a smile that leaves again just as quickly. “Thank you for everything you’ve done. I mean that sincerely.”

“Don’t give it another thought. I’m just glad we won’t need that contract.” Barnum tries to be happy despite the niggling unease in his gut. It doesn’t feel like the storm has passed. It feels like they’re gliding in the eye, heading toward the other half of the hurricane. “We _won’t_ need it, right, Phillip?”

Phillip bends over the letters again. The scratch of his pen on the paper is audible. “Of course not," he says. "I’m free, aren't I?” 

* * *

_Dear P.T.,_

_I’m not good at saying goodbye. Besides which, I don’t want to leave with an argument – I’d much rather remember you laughing than shouting. I hope you’ll give my love to Charity and the girls, although if you’d rather not I understand. I can only hope I've been half as good to them as you've been to me._

_You’ve probably guessed I’m with Edgar. Please don’t worry; I’m going to take care of myself, and I’m going to keep my dignity. I’m a different man, not quite the man I once hoped I would be, but far closer to it than I thought I’d get. I have you to thank for that. I have you to thank for everything._

_I’ve left both my play and the contract in the bottom drawer of my desk. I’ve signed off on it; all you have to do is sign your part and the script is yours. Wayne is more than willing to take on the production if you want, which will leave you free to run the circus. I know you find the theatre boring. I’m not insulted; on the contrary, I’m deeply honoured that you thought fit to find me interesting. If I had known you when I was a stupid seventeen-year-old boy I wouldn’t have had to ruin my life to find its worth. You would have shown me, and I would have believed you._

_I don’t think a day will pass when I won’t think of you and your family and all the Oddities. Take care of them, and don’t let anyone tell you you’re not a great man. If they do, think of a man named Phillip Carlyle, who didn’t die drunk in a gutter simply because you believed he could do better. If I’m ever in town I’ll come and see your show. Until then, keep dreaming. No one ever made a difference by being like everyone else._

_Your friend,_

_Phillip_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is...STILL not the end! Wow, how depressing would that be? Besides, it would screw massively with the movie plotline, and that's just not where I'm trying to go. On another note: somebody please come rescue me, I'm drowning in my own misguided creativity.
> 
> You know the drill...Next chapter up Monday June 24th!


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Phillip is sorely missed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I am so encouraged by your comments and kudos! I'm especially happy to be putting my feet up and posting this chapter in my own kitchen at the end of a long day of travelling. Thank you and enjoy the next installment of this runaway train.
> 
> ALSO: Beware of some standard period racism ahead.

Phillip dreams of the circus.

He dreams of the heat and sweat, the gaslights like flaming gold, the susurration of breaths. He sees the flash of sequined bodies, hears the hard _thump_ of heels against concrete, smells sawdust and manure. Every vision is textured, every texture is tasted, every taste is sublime. It’s a feast for the senses, a wilderness for the intellect, and he drinks deep.

They dance: the troupe, the ringmasters, laughing and revelling in each other and themselves. And sometimes Phillip throws in a few extra taps of his feet, just because he’s younger and slighter than Barnum and can do it, and because it makes Barnum grin. Barnum, panning Phillip’s whirling form with his cane, showing him off to the crowd, absurdly proud. _Look at this. Look what I found. Isn’t it incredible? Tell me, have you ever seen anyone else who can do that?_

Sometimes it’s fantasy, sometimes it’s memory, sometimes it’s both. Sometimes he feels Anne under his hands, supple and nut-brown, and he aches with a burn that can’t be soothed. Sometimes he’s old and grey, and he’s telling his grandchildren about his life, how he was saved from a golden gutter and how P.T. Barnum invented the pure form of happiness.

Sometimes he dreams these things.

Always, he wakes.

* * *

Edgar Wells is refined and fashionable, like most of Phillip’s pre-circus acquaintances. Everything about him, from his speech to his mannerisms to his clothing, is tasteful and polite. Perhaps part of Phillip has missed it. This is his natural parlance, his native tongue.

But it doesn’t take long for it to wear on him, the way every word must be carefully tasted, offered delicately like a fragile champagne flute, lowered with a thin _clink_ on china ears. He wonders sometimes, if this is how he feels after barely a month, how did he ever last thirty years?

Edgar strolls into the parlour, one finger perched on his bottom lip, scanning a stack of papers. “What are you reading?” Phillip asks curiously from the couch. Although his injuries have healed he still has trouble exposing his back; the couch sits discreetly along one wall, and whenever they go out on the town Edgar walks slightly behind him. It takes time, he supposes. Time and persistence.

“A new manuscript.” Edgar absently takes the chair next to the couch, crossing one leg over the other. “Pardon me, I don’t mean to ignore you,” he adds, “but this could be important. It’s not as good as yours, but it’s promising, in its own way.”

Phillip resists the urge to crane his neck to see what Edgar is reading. As passionate as he remembers Edgar to be in bed, the man is reserved about his space everywhere else. “Who wrote that?” he asks.

“A playwright by the name of Allen Peter.” Edgar turns the page. “I detest a man with two first names, but I can’t deny the quality of his writing.”

Phillip smiles. “You don’t have to sit all the way over there,” he says. “This couch is big enough for at least three.”

For the first time Edgar looks up. “Is it?” he returns, his eyes smiling. “I don’t know if I like that. Three is an awfully inconvenient number.”

“Then be happy we’re only two.” Phillip nods at the spot beside him. Edgar laughingly takes it.

The heat from their touching thighs is delightful. This is Phillip’s apartment; Edgar has rooms just down the hall. Phillip has sworn not to play the mistress and so far he’s been steadfast. Edgar doesn’t push; he understands, at least in theory. But every now and then it’s hard not to flirt, to indulge in guilty and beloved closeness.

It’s lonely here.

“What’s it about?” Phillip slides the top page out of Edgar’s fingers to read the title, then flips it back up. “You’re not thinking of putting me in a burlesque, are you?”

“Why not? It’s far more sophisticated than that show Barnum runs.”

“It’s not about sophistication.” Phillip overlooks the jab with an effort. “Look at the characters. There’s a mulatto wench in here.”

“It’s only pretend, Phillip,” Edgar says reasonably. “Obviously you won’t have to kiss a _real_ mulatto. She’ll be a white girl in blackface.”

“That’s not my concern,” Phillip says. Just last night he dreamed of making desperate love to Anne under the circus stands – what would Edgar think of that? “I don’t want to be part of something that…satirises them.”

“I think you’re missing the point of the humour, my love.” Edgar gently pries the script away from Phillip’s hands. “I don’t recall you being this sensitive. I thought Barnum had destroyed your inhibitions, not strengthened them.”

“Let’s not talk about Barnum.”

“Agreed.” Edgar makes a move as if to peck him on the cheek and then abruptly draws back. Phillip is well aware that he’s pushing the limits of his self-control, having an attractive and willing man in his apartment. But what worries him even more is what will happen if _Edgar_ decides to make a move. Based on the swelling heat between his legs, Phillip’s body is not ready to resist a bold advance.

“Well, I thinking we’re accomplishing very little here.” Edgar’s tone is light, but his eyes linger. “I believe I’ll go down to the post office and see if Wayne has left a letter. We’re trying to move on that Reidman work but the man’s inspiration seems to be in in the privy. Come with me?”

“I don’t know,” Phillip hedges. He’s been trying to write another play – with abhorrent results. Still, he can’t help going back to it, like worrying a persistent itch. “I should do some work.”

“You do too much work.” Edgar pats his thigh fondly. “How about this: after the post office I’ll take you to lunch with that new assistant manager from the Walnut. He has a take on those experimental carbon arc lamps that I think you’ll find fascinating.”

Phillip’s first thought is that he should scout the lamps for use in the circus. He has to shake himself mentally; he scouts for himself now, here in well-to-do Philadelphia. “That sounds great,” he says, trying to sound convincing. “Though I can’t say I’m hungry; it’s been a while since I really worked up an appetite.”

Edgar looks around the apartment with an expression of genuine astonishment. “You must have been toiling like a dog,” he says, indicating the neat piles of books and subdued stacks of paper. “It looks like absolute chaos in here.”

“If you say so,” Phillip says, wishing fervently he could lose his melancholy in Edgar’s kisses. “Will you give me a minute? I need to make myself presentable.”

Barnum would laugh at him and throw out some careless jibe about his ever-perfect hair. “Of course,” Edgar says, sitting back, his eyes already politely lowered. “Take your time.”

* * *

It’s not often Anne finds the trapeze zone unavailable for practice. There are only six aerial acrobats in Barnum’s employ, and they’re all very jealous of their space. She stops, looking up at the lyra hoop and its unexpected occupant fifteen feet above the ring. It’s not the first time she’s seen him up there. She doesn’t mind; it’s his circus.

“Hey.” She tries to sound casual, but nothing around here has seemed right since Phillip left, and it shows. “Need some help getting down?”

Barnum looks down at her. His arms are crossed over the top of the lyra, his legs dangling into empty space; she feels vicariously the bite of steel in the cleft of her buttocks. “Naw,” he says. She can see the pulley rope tied to the lyra, keeping him in place in the air. “Just thinking.”

“Good place to do it.” Anne rubs chalk into the creases of her palms. Will he mind her being here? Should she wait until he’s gone? Should she ask? When she was a slave these were the all-important questions. Misjudging the answers had terrible results. “I’ll come back later,” she says in a fit of indecision, turning to go.

“I’m sorry, I’m intruding.” Barnum reaches to untie the pulley rope. “I’ll let you practice.”

“There’s no need.” The words rush out of her; sometimes she just can’t get used to Barnum’s consideration. “I’ll…join you.”

She unwinds a rope from the pole and lowers a second lyra hoop. She doesn’t wait for it to reach the ground. Instead she shimmies up until she can pull herself safely inside the ring.

“I’m impressed you know the ropes,” she says, securing herself. She bounces a couple of times to test it. “It’s not easy getting the hang of it.”

“Well, W.D.’s a good teacher.” Barnum rests his chin back on his crossed wrists and they lapse into companionable silence.

After a while, Barnum reaches out with one foot and gently nudges Anne’s hoop. He keeps it moving in a steady swinging rhythm. The familiar sway soothes her persistent sorrow.

“It’s not your fault,” she says softly after the eighth or ninth nudge. “He makes his own decisions.”

“I know.”

“You did all you could.” Anne studies Barnum’s lined face. His eyes stare into empty space, seeing things no one else can. “Probably more than anyone else would dare.”

“I hope you didn’t mind me asking your brother for help.”

“’Course not.” Anne sighs as Barnum’s foot continues to bump lightly against her hoop. Everybody knows now about that night; it’s simply impossible to keep secrets around here. “I wish I was white," she adds on an unhappy impulse. "Maybe Phillip wouldn’t have left.”

“Hey, now.” Barnum’s voice is low. “I don’t want to hear you blaming yourself. You're not what drove him away.”

“But don’t you ever wish you were something you’re not? Something that would make everything easier?”

Barnum turns his head to look at her. His crow’s-feet deepen with a sad smile. “Every goddamn day,” he says quietly.

After a moment Anne reaches out with her foot and swings him a little in return. 

* * *

They put on a good show that night. Anne hangs upside-down from a lowered trapeze bar after the final number, chatting with awestruck children who can’t wait to touch her pink wig. Barnum is relentlessly jovial, shaking parents’ hands and charming grandparents. He shows a group of young boys the finer points of his exuberant footwork, and when they try it he applauds their clumsy mimicry.

If you didn’t know him, you wouldn’t see how hard he’s trying.

When the last audience members finally leave Anne makes her way to the office, her long purple scarf fluttering behind her. She needs to tell Barnum about a persistently loose bolt on one of the platforms. She’s almost through the office door when she hears James Gordon Bennett’s voice.

“…not to shoot the messenger, Mister Barnum. I’m merely giving you a chance to respond beforehand – a courtesy few others would afford you.”

Anne quickly ducks back against the wall, clutching her scarf ends. She lightens her breathing until it’s no more than the hint of a whisper. It doesn’t occur to her that this is wrong. As a household slave she was relied upon by the others for information: who might be sold, who might be punished, who might be bred. What would horrify Phillip Carlyle is, to her, simply a survival instinct.

“That’s not a courtesy I recall requesting.” Gone is the devil-may-care ringmaster; in his place is a man simmering with resentment. “I’m not interested in the chatter of idle people.”

“You should be. It’s about you.”

Anne dares to peek around the doorframe. Barnum has shed his red jacket and waistcoat; his fingers work the buttons of his creamy silk shirt. “What are they calling me today, Bennett?” He strips off the shirt and tosses it, damp, over the back of a chair. “Charlatan? Gutter monkey? Ahab?”

If Bennett finds the display of sweat and muscle coarse, he gives no indication. “There is some renewed speculation about the nature of your relationship with your erstwhile partner, Phillip Carlyle,” he says as Barnum reaches for a fresh shirt. “Given, of course, the news that he is to star in the newest Wayne and Wells production – in the Walnut Street Theatre, no less.”

Barnum chuckles humourlessly. “And now you’re going to tell me that people give two shits what Phillip does under the sheets in Philadelphia?” he fires back, shrugging on the shirt. Sweat glistens in the dark hair over his chest and belly. “He’s _gone_ , Bennett. Stop hounding him.”

“Wells was known, or suspected, to be Carlyle’s former lover. Now they’ve run off together. It raises questions about Carlyle’s involvement here. Questions I’ve never been averse to raising in the past.”

Barnum looks at Bennett with something on his lips that doesn’t quite qualify as a smile. “You can go to hell with your questions up your ass. It’s no more than you deserve.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You’re the one who drove him away. You and that… _article._ ” Barnum buttons his shirt with terse, angry motions. “It was no better than bear-baiting, the way you tormented him.”

“I would say he was tormented by a guilty conscience.”

“You think so, do you? You have no idea what you caused. What he had to suffer.”

“I did my job and no more.”

“Really? Tell me, Bennett, do you sleep nights?”

“Soundly, I’m happy to report.” Bennett watches Barnum with that calculating, eagle-eyed look. “If you want to refute the claims I’ll gladly make space for it. Along with your comments on the upcoming production of _The Last Foray_.”

Barnum turns his neck so sharply Anne thinks it will snap. “You really don’t know when to give up, do you?” he growls.

“On the contrary, I have an acute feel for the potential of a story. It’s a Carlyle play, isn’t it?”

“Get out.”

“Did he sell you the rights? Is that how he got out of his contract with you? Or was it meant to assuage a rejected lover?”

Barnum gives a low laugh. “You’re about as pleasant as a leech in the pants, you know that?”

“The truth is rarely pleasant, Mister Barnum.” Bennett stares at him impassively. “Shall I take down a quote? This is a courtesy, as I said; the next time I may not be so magnanimous.”

“You can put your magnanimity the same place as your questions.”

“That quote, unfortunately, is unprintable. Like most of your slimy rhetoric.”

Barnum turns toward the door. Anne skitters back, ducking into the dark corner formed by the office and adjoining wall. “I have a circus to clean up. You know where the door is; don’t let it hit you on the way out. Unless, of course, you want to make my day.”

“Not so much.” Bennett emerges from the office steps ahead of Barnum, pulling on his gloves. “Sleep well, Mister Barnum. I certainly shall.”

Barnum waits in the office doorway until Bennett disappears. Then he turns his head to where Anne crouches in the shadows. “You can come out now, Wheeler,” he drawls. “The leech is gone.”

Anne takes a step forward, just enough to let the light fall on her ashen face. “I – I’m sorry, Mister Barnum,” she stammers. “I didn’t mean to…”

“Yes, you did.” Barnum crosses his arms. “You wanna quote me too? Or are you just here for the entertainment value?”

Anne just stands there and trembles. “Oh, stop,” Barnum says gruffly. “What do you need?”

“One of the bolts,” she manages. “On the platform. It’s…”

“Still giving you trouble, eh? Fine, I’ll look at it tomorrow.” He smiles a little, relaxing his stance. “Get outta here, Anne, you know I’m not going to take issue. Just don’t let me catch you again.”

He noticeably doesn’t bother forbidding her entrenched habit. She hurries off, relieved, and as she does she hears him mutter, “You kids’ll be the death of me.” 

* * *

“Daddy!” Helen launches herself at him before he can even take off his hat. He has to drop his attaché to catch her. “Did Phillip send a letter?”

Dear God, will it ever stop hurting? Barnum sighs and strokes her hair, catching Caroline’s eye as she waits anxiously for his answer. “Not today,” he says. “I told you, girls, I don’t think Phillip’s going to send anything.”

“Of course he will,” Helen says with conviction. “He’s _Phillip_.”

She squirms out of his arms, not much daunted. If a letter hasn’t arrived today, one will tomorrow, or the day after, or the day after that. Barnum beckons Caroline forward for a hug, wishing it was sufficient to dispel her grief. “Can’t you go wherever he is and bring him back?” she murmurs against his stomach. “I think he would like that.”

“He didn’t tell me where he was going, honey.” Barnum doesn’t tell her that he’s since found out. “Besides, I don’t think he’d listen to me.”

“You can get _anybody_ to do _anything_. Even the lions.”

He looks up to see Charity leaning against the doorway to the parlour. “Well, Phillip isn’t a lion,” he says lightly, ruffing Caroline’s hair. “He’s a man who got tired of living in New York with bad people, that’s all.”

“But we’re not bad people.”

Barnum laughs shortly. “No, I don’t think so,” he says.

“What if _we_ wrote him a letter?” Caroline looks up with round eyes. “Could we, Daddy?”

Barnum kneels. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he says, laying a hand on her hair.

“Why not? Doesn’t he love us?”

“Of course he does.”

“Then why wouldn’t he want our letter?”

“Charity,” Barnum appeals.

“Of course he loves us,” Charity says gently, coming forward to take Caroline’s shoulders. “But remember how I told you why you never see Grandfather and Grandmother? Sometimes people need to be by themselves for a while so God can remind them of how much they miss their family.”

 _Leave me out of this,_ Barnum imagines God saying. _I’m not liable for the asses you make of yourselves._

Caroline sniffs, blinking tears out of her eyes, and for a moment Barnum seriously considers marching over to Philadelphia and dragging Phillip back by his ear. _It’s your turn,_ he’d say. You _try explaining the warped human condition to my daughters. I’ll just sit over here, pour myself a stiff one, and watch your head explode._

“Sorry,” Barnum mutters, drawing Charity close as the girls disappear, holding hands. “I know you’ve been dealing with that all evening.”

“It’s okay.” She nuzzles her golden head against his throat. “I’ll take my revenge on you later.”

He smiles, pressing his lips to the part of her hair. “Mister Herald came by the circus,” he mutters.

“Bennett again?”

“Shh, don’t curse in front of the girls.”

“Don’t be savage,” Charity whispers against his collar, but she’s chuckling. “What did he want?”

“He’s doing a piece about the play.”

“Well, that should make for light reading.”

“He guessed it was written by Phillip. I was hoping to keep that particular tidbit out of Theodore Carlyle’s ears a while longer.”

“Well, there’s nothing you can do. Unless Bennett takes bribes?”

“Charity Hallett.” Barnum pulls back in mock astonishment. “You scandalous wench.”

She laughs and kisses him. He groans helplessly as a fire ignites low in his belly. It’s been a long four weeks since Phillip left, and it’s been a long day, and he would really just like to forget everything for an hour or so. “Come to bed,” he murmurs as she tries to pull away. “Forget supper. Forget we conceived daughters. Whose idea was that anyway? Let’s pretend we’re naked sailors marooned on an island and all we have to do all day is try to weave clothes from coconut fibre.”

“Phineas…”

“ _And it doesn’t work_.”

“Phineas, you’re ridiculous,” Charity remonstrates, but her eyes are gleaming.

“Okay, we can pretend that too. And I can be twenty-one and not sagging anywhere and you can be any age you want, as long as you don’t sail away on a raft.”

“Why would I, when you’re not sagging anywhere?” she fires back.

She succumbs to giggles as he grins. “Now who’s being savage?” he whispers against her velvet lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you were wondering, the "mulatto wench" was an actual stock character in many plays at this time - being an attractive, frequently promiscuous young woman of mixed descent (often portrayed by a white person). This played on unfavourable stereotypes of the time regarding young black women.
> 
> Also, according to my research, James Gordon Bennet was quite the sensationalist, which probably accounts for his interest in reporting on the circus. Historically he had a taste for writing about those kind of scandals.
> 
> Next chapter up Monday July 1!


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bennett continues to make life difficult (so why can't I stop liking him?). Also, Charles makes a dubious pop-culture reference.
> 
> WARNING: A protestor indulges in some cruel comments at some point in this chapter - beware of a brief instance of disturbing language (one offensive word partially blanked out). Unfortunately, this was just how people talked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, I posted this before the eleventh hour! :D Enjoy, my lovely readers, and Happy Canada Day! (I. AM. CANADIAN. Literally. I am. And no, I'm not going to apologise. Until the end. There's an apology at the end. Because it's not over until the Canadian says sorry.)

Phillip strides out of the house, stripping off his white kid gloves. With a vicious toss he abandons them in the shrubbery. The cravat is next, ripped off with such force it leaves his neck stinging.

“Phillip!” Edgar’s voice follows him down the groomed gravel path. “I’m so sorry. He was entirely out of line.”

“No more parties.” Phillip’s back teeth grind together; he can feel sweat tracing patterns down his temples. “No more.”

“I spoke to him. He understands his mistake.” Edgar grabs at his elbow and Phillip almost decks him. Every nerve is alight, every muscle quivering; his heart races like a thoroughbred in the last stretch. “Please, Phillip, stop running.”

Phillip shoves Edgar away. “Why does everybody say that?” he snaps. “He _pinned_ me to the _wall_.”

“Yes, and he’s a moron. Everyone knows that.” Edgar reaches for him again but Phillip ducks away. “I’m sorry, I know how you feel about this.”

“You don’t know how I feel. You _don’t_ …” Tears are pressing against his eyes, and he stubbornly resumes his flight. “It was getting better. It was _better_ , Ed.”

“Please don’t call me that, you make me sound like a silly young boy.” Edgar gives up on stopping him and instead keeps pace. “If you would tell me why you’re so damn skittish all the time it might help. I know you were attacked in some form, but…”

“What does it matter? Thornton forced himself on me. Isn’t that bad enough?”

“He’s the kind of man who finds out about someone’s reputation and thinks it gives him license. Nobody else thought they could get away with it.”

“Probably because you were there.” Phillip’s words are bitter. “A respectable married man.”

“Hardly respectable, love.” Edgar sounds painfully amused. “They all think we’re at it.”

“We’re not.”

“I know,” Edgar murmurs. “For all I’ve tried to change that.”

Phillip stops so abruptly Edgar carries on for several steps before turning. “I told you why I won’t,” Phillip says. “It’s not you, and it’s not me. It’s her. If what we have is a sin, fine, at least it’s between us. But I can’t love you in good conscience while she’s waiting for you. She has a right to you, Edgar. She’s your wife.”

“I’m not interested in her. I never have been.”

“Then let her go honourably. Do what’s right. I could have avoided a lot of grief if I’d done that earlier.”

Edgar laughs lowly. “So says the man who broke his contract,” he says.

“That was to protect my friends. As long as I was there my father would always be looking for an opportunity to hurt them. If you knew how much I wanted to stay, you’d know what it took to leave.”

Edgar pushes a hand through his hair. “Sometimes I question how happy you are to be here,” he says at last. “I enjoy your company, Phillip. You’re sophisticated, beautiful, almost divine, sometimes – but you seem to be reaching for something beyond me.”

Phillip doesn’t say anything. After a minute Edgar calls for his carriage.

They spend the rest of the evening in Phillip’s apartment, an acceptable compromise. Edgar reads a novel aloud as Phillip reclines against his chest. Edgar has always had an excellent speaking voice, clear and engaging, and Phillip closes his eyes to better appreciate the dulcet tones.

At some point he feels the light brush of lips on his. “You’re so beautiful like this,” Edgar whispers. His low tones are overlaid with awe. “You don’t look a bit afraid.”

Phillip tips his head back; in his belly churns a maelstrom of desire and terror. “Please,” he whispers back, wishing he could give in. “Don’t.”

Edgar kisses one corner of his lips. His breathing is strained. “Please. Do.”

Phillip pushes away. “You’re running again.” Edgar traps him lightly with an arm across his stomach, and Phillip’s breathing speeds up. “I wish you wouldn’t do that.”

“Can you please let go?”

Edgar hesitates, only a moment or two. “Edgar, let go,” Phillip says, panicked, and he quickly does.

“You know I could give you everything you need.” Edgar’s voice follows him to his bedroom. “We would be happy. You want so much to be a white knight, but there’s no point in honour. Even Lancelot had his paramour.”

“And ended a kingdom,” Phillip says quietly. “This is my choice, Edgar. If you love me, don’t try to lessen me.”

He closes the bedroom door and leans against it, closing his eyes tightly. 

* * *

“The paper, sir.”

“Thank you, Gerard.” Theodore Carlyle sips his morning coffee as the butler lays the newspaper by his elbow. “Did the boy leave it in the shrubbery again?”

“He did, sir.”

“The latest in a long line of transgressors.” Theodore can’t help inwardly revelling. Even complaints, if consistent, can be pleasant. “Thank you, Gerard, that will be all.”

The butler bows. Theodore opens the paper and leisurely begins scanning items of interest. He has just finished an article about falling stocks when Bennett’s face catches his eye.

 _Ah, I wonder whom the sly fox has ferreted out now._ He snaps the paper satisfactorily and leans back.

By the end of the article his buoyant mood has downshifted alarmingly. “Edna,” he calls, his eyes still fixed on the article, “do you recall Phillip writing a play called _The Last Foray?_ ”

“No, dear. He hasn’t shown me any unpublished manuscripts in years. Why?”

Theodore stares at the paper. “No reason in particular,” he says, folding it.

He rises, abandoning the dregs of his coffee. Edna follows him to their bedroom; he can hear her heels clacking against the floor. “He’s gone, Theodore,” she says from the doorway. “Whatever this is between you, it’s gone on long enough.”

He loops his cravat around his neck. “Leave it, Edna,” he says coolly. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“And when do I get to know?” Edna returns. “Mister Barnum comes here talking about injuries and attacks on our son, and you brush it off. Phillip leaves for Philadelphia without even saying goodbye, and you act pleased. I don’t know when it happened – so many years ago, now – but it seems like one day I had a family and the next everything was falling apart. When do I get to know why?”

“You’re better off not knowing.” Theodore secures the cravat in place with deft, practised movements. “Phillip’s departure is a good thing. He will finally have a chance to come to his senses.”

“He left with Edgar Wells. You know as well as I do, Theodore…”

“That’s enough.” It comes out more harshly than intended. “I freed him from the circus. There’s only so much I can do.”

“What deal did you make with Barnum?”

“Deal?”

“I’m not stupid, my love,” she says quietly, in a way that sends a shiver of fear up his spine. “He believes you had something to do with Phillip’s injuries. Now I’ve never interfered in how you raise our sons, you know that. I’ve respected your wishes from the moment Michael was born. But am I not allowed to be concerned?”

“When you have something to be concerned about, I will let you know.” Theodore turns from the mirror to grasp her shoulders. He feels resentfully that her steady, furrowed gaze renders his attempt at magnanimity absurd. “Rest easy, my dear. I’m securing the future of our family.”

“If this is the future, I see a long struggle before us.” Edna steps back, removing herself from his grasp. “But I see little hope for happiness.”

With that, her clipped footsteps disappear down the hall.

It’s a long time before his composure is ready to make an appearance. 

* * *

“Has anyone seen this morning’s edition of the _Herald_?”

Lettie glances up at Barnum’s voice. She’s sitting on one of the bleacher tiers, carefully cradling a skirt full of peanuts. “Deng has it,” she says, cracking a nut between her molars. “She’s using Bennett’s face for target practice.”

Barnum rolls his eyes. “Take five, Deng,” he says, holding out his hand. Deng lowers her knives obligingly. Barnum strolls over and stops in front of the target, hands in his pockets. “Well, at least you obliterated his mouth,” he observes. “I always thought that was his worst feature.”

Lettie cackles. “His worst features are his beady little eyes,” Deng says, twirling a knife expertly. “You want me to edit his article? I can cut out whatever you like.”

“No, I want to read it.” Barnum starts pulling knives out of the paper. “Thank you for not turning this over to the fire-eaters.”

Lettie looks over Barnum’s arm as he plops down next to her. It’s barely eight-thirty and his sleeves are already rolled to the elbow; she can see the crescent scar on his left forearm marking the entry of Deng’s blade. “What’s he got to say this morning?”

“Circus circus circus, yada yada yada.” Barnum scans quickly through the article. “Here it is. _The much-anticipated production of the newest Wayne and Wells play,_ The Last Foray, _has been marred out of the gate by the blot of questionable ownership. New York’s own infamous P.T. Barnum has acquired the rights to the unclaimed play which, despite its unusually vigorous subject matter, bears the stylistic trademarks of a Phillip Carlyle work_.”

“Hey, he used your favourite word.”

“Vigorous?”

“Infamous _._ ”

“ _Carlyle’s plays are known for their bourgeois intrigue and palatability, traits which do not appear to be present in his newest, albeit anonymous, work._ _While authorship cannot be conclusively determined, it is almost certain that Carlyle’s swift departure from his circus dalliance was bought with his latest stroke of genius._ If I had a quarter for every time this guy pissed me off…”

“Here’s an idea.” Lettie splits another nut with her teeth. “We stick a piece of cheese on a pencil and put it in the lion pen. He’s a rat, maybe he’ll bite.”

“We got rats now?” Constantine stops next to them on his way by, craning his neck to see the article. “Who wrote that, Shit-for-Ink Bennett?”

“Yeah.” Barnum frowns at the sliced page. “What is it about me this guy hates so much?”

“Us.” Lettie nudges him. “Never mind, Barnum, we like you.”

“Lettie, no offense, but that’s not exactly my ladder to the top.” Barnum folds the newspaper. “I’m going over to the theatre.”

“Want company?”

“No, I need to think.”

“Barnum…”

“I’ll see you later, okay, Lettie?” Barnum tosses the paper into the ring. “Have at him, Deng.”

They watch him go, his shoulders noticeably tense. “Ah, Carlyle,” Lettie sighs finally, turning back to the peanuts. “You had to leave us, didn’t you?” 

* * *

The theatre is posh, soaring, elite in every finicky detail. Barnum makes his way down one of the aisles as the director instructs the leading man in the play’s signature passionate monologue. The actor bears the unfortunate name of Henry Lispner; it doesn’t seem to be reflected in his enunciation, at least.

“And then you get to _The Almighty made me a man, not a mouse to be caught in a trap_ ,” the director instructs. Barnum stops next to Wayne, a short, balding man who is watching the action keenly with his hands folded over his expansive belly. “When you say that, Claudette enters…”

The director motions for Lispner to begin.

“Th’Almighty made me a man, not a mouse,” Lispner enunciates in a lacy Shakespearean accent that sends little shivers of revulsion through Barnum, “to be caught in a trap.”

Barnum tries to imagine Phillip rolling his R’s like that. “A little more of that,” the director encourages, seemingly entranced by Lispner’s portrayal. “Remember, the sentiment is as lofty as the emotions of the man who expresses it.”

“Th’Almighty,” Lispner begins, flourishing airily, “made me a man, not a…”

“Oh, for God’s sake.” Barnum throws his coat and jacket over the back of the seat and strides down the aisle, unbuttoning his cuffs. He ignores Wayne’s surprised inquiry and hops the four or five steps up to the stage. “Lispner, take five.”

“Mister Barnum,” the director says indignantly, but with the unwilling deference of a man speaking to his unwanted superior, “he was in the middle of an exquisite performance.”

“Exquisite my ass.” Barnum neatly snatches the script out of Lispner’s hand. “The sentiment isn’t _lofty_. It’s dirt-low, furious. These aren’t the words of a man who’s spent his life politely nibbling on cucumber sandwiches. This is a man who’s scraped to the bottom of every pile of crap, looking for something to make sense of all this lunacy.” He clears his throat. “The _Almighty_ ,” he bellows, an angry, ricocheting shout that throbs in the confined theatre air, “made me a _man_ , not a _mouse_ to be caught in a _trap_.”

No one speaks. They stare, half terrified, transfixed.

Barnum continues, the words rolling off his tongue as easily as they rise to him off the page. “And _you_ , Claudette…” He whirls to point at the timid young woman who has crept onstage, bewildered. “You are no more a mouse than I.” He strides to her, takes her little white hand, urges her to centre stage. “Look – look at the stars.” He lifts his script-laden hand to the blazing gaslights, and she follows it, lips parted. His voice lowers, awestruck. “Aren’t they breathtaking?”

“Yes,” she whispers, though it’s not in the script.

“And yet they’re written in place.” Barnum stares into her eyes, impassioned frustration in every word. “Every constellation – Claudette. Think of the constellations! Every star, in its place, a part of the whole – if it moves, the constellation changes, forever.”

“Are we stars?” she asks, tears sparking in her eyes.

“Yes.” Barnum grips her hand; Phillip’s words leap boldly off his tongue. “We’re diamonds, shimmering up there where no one can reach. But stars die, Claudette. They go out, and others are born, but never in the same place. Constellations change. Why can’t we? Why can’t we flicker out here, die to what was, and be reborn? Humans name the constellations – but we can change them. The Almighty helping us, why can’t we rewrite the stars?”

The theatre falls silent as the echoes slowly absorb into the woodwork.

Wayne stands, clapping loudly. “Well _done_ , Mister Barnum,” he says, his voice carrying easily through the theatre. “I can’t imagine anyone but Carlyle himself conveying that more accurately.”

Barnum bows, a drop of sweat falling heedlessly from his temple. “Thank you, sir,” he says, releasing the actress’ hand. “Lispner will do fine if he can remember what it’s like to be desperate.”

He hands back the script, revelling in the actor’s round eyes. “You’re not bad, as far as that goes,” he says. “Just…” He flourishes blandly with one hand. “None of that, okay? I know the man who wrote this, and when he gets angry it’s more to the tune of trashing hundreds of dollars’ worth of liquor.”

Lispner clutches the script and nods. Barnum descends from the stage to retrieve his personal effects, wiping sweat from his forehead with his bared wrist. It’s almost as hot up there as in the circus – stuffier, somehow.

“Barnum, we only have a month before this thing goes public.” Wayne leans against the back of a plush seat. “We’re pushing it, no doubt about it – what do you think about what you’ve seen so far?”

“I think it’ll be ready.” Barnum shrugs on his jacket. “You can’t make that actor live on the streets for a week, can you?”

“I doubt we would retain him very long.”

“Pity,” Barnum sighs.

Wayne smiles, his doughy cheeks lifting into twin piles. “Barnum, some might call you trashy, but no one would call you boring.” He inclines his head at the stage. “I meant what I said – you’d make an outstanding actor with a little classical training.”

“I doubt you would retain me very long,” Barnum retorts, and Wayne laughs.

“Touché. If you come by tomorrow, you can see the new props we have for the brawl scene. I think you’ll appreciate them.”

“Will do.” Barnum tips his hat and exits, suddenly eager to be out of the theatre. He doesn’t want to see what else they will do to Phillip’s play – and he can never shake the feeling that he doesn’t really belong there, that everything _is_ too lofty for him despite his best efforts to prove otherwise.

 _Phillip never made me feel that way,_ he thinks with a sudden pang. _So why d_ _oes everyone else?_

He’s climbing the front steps of the circus when a wad of half-frozen mud slaps him on the side of his head.

“F-g!” The vitriol is like a blow to the gut. “You miss it, yah?”

It’s like someone has stuck a needle in his lungs and let out all the air. He turns to identify his attacker and is slugged in the face by another handful of muck. He splutters, wiping it frantically out of his eyes. _Don’t let him get to your blindside don’t let him get his hand in your pocket don’t let him get a knife to your throat…_

He lashes out instinctively and feels his fist graze a bony cheek. There’s a grunt, the sound of stumbling, and then the front door of the circus opens with a bang.

Barnum barely has time to react, flinging himself at whoever is coming out. They collide with a rib-jarring thump, and Barnum instantly recognises W.D. by the muttered curse. He locks his arms and they go down, W.D. struggling under him.

“Lemme go, Barnum. Lemme get him.”

“Not a chance,” Barnum grinds out, fighting to hold W.D. against the stone steps. It’s hard; W.D. is powerful and at least fifteen years his junior. And Barnum still can’t see. “We're not doing this again.”

“I hear you got cages in there for breeding ‘em.” The jeer is chortling, obscene. “Is that how you get 'em to come out so queer-looking - you breed ‘em like dogs? What’s your rate, a penny a pup?”

“Get out of here,” Barnum snaps as W.D. growls audibly. “You have no business here.”

“I sure do. I’m bleedin’, you ugly crud.”

Barnum can hear the sound of people gathering – God bless New York and its unhelpful denizens. “W.D., get back inside,” he snarls as W.D.’s knee comes dangerously close to his crotch. “If they take you to jail, you’re not coming out in one piece.”

“You hear what he’s sayin’?”

“I do, and it won’t be just words if we land behind bars. I’m not asking you; I’m _telling_ you that if you don’t stop there will be consequences.”

More footsteps emerge from the circus. Barnum has just enough time to wonder how many of them will be sharing a cell before Constantine’s voice says, “Let him go, we got him.”

Barnum groans and rolls away, scrubbing at his mucky eyes. He finally gets a look at the situation: a lanky young man spitting and cursing, blood trickling down his cheek; Constantine and Jeremy restraining W.D.; and Angus striding out, stopping next to Barnum’s shoulder. “What d’you need, Barnum?” he asks in his growling voice, clenching his hands so his massive muscles bunch formidably. The attacker’s eyes widen, and he backs off a step or two.

“Just make sure everyone gets back inside.” Barnum spits a wad of mud out of his mouth and struggles to his knees. “I don’t want this getting uglier than it needs to be.”

“Pretty damn ugly already.” The familiar butt of a truncheon digs painfully between his shoulder blades, and Barnum looks up to see a policeman looking grimly down at him. “I wouldn’t bother getting up if you’ve got any fight left in you.”

“I didn’t start it.” The words bolt from his mouth as if he is fourteen again, lying in the muck and covered in blood. “That guy…”

“This is the way I see it,” the policeman interrupts. “I see five men fighting on the steps of a circus, none of ‘em looking very sane, I might add. Then I turn my head and see a peaceable civilian bleeding from his face. Now what am I supposed to think?”

“I can tell you _how_ you’re supposed to think,” Barnum fires back. “With your brain. Ask around, anyone here will tell you how it is – my people are just trying to –”

“I think I’ve heard enough.” The policeman nods, and his partner approaches with a set of handcuffs. “Now, here’s what we’re going to do: you’re going to hold still and let my friend put on your bracelets, or we’re going to find out just how hard your head is.”

“I’m telling you, I didn’t…”

The policeman rests the butt of his truncheon against the base of Barnum’s head. “I’m a first-string hitter,” he says. “And I’m always keen to play a little ball. Are you?”

There’s nothing he can do but submit. 

* * *

“Look sharp, Barnum. You have a visitor.”

Barnum raises his head blearily from his chest. _Please God don’t let it be Charity, please don’t let her come down here._ “Who?” he croaks, shifting uncomfortably on the damp cement floor. On the single bunk, designed for one man, stretches his companion, a thin bearded fellow who refuses to talk. It won’t be a fun night, choosing between cuddling into a lice-ridden stranger or sleeping on the hard floor. In this tiny cell it’s almost one and the same thing.

“I’ll let him address that. No profanity; he’s a gentleman.” The guard bows a little to the unseen visitor and then withdraws to one side.

Maybe Barnum should be surprised to see Theodore Carlyle here. He’s not. “Come to gloat, have you?” he asks, setting the back of his head against the hard wall. When they first brought him down here the overpowering stench of musty swampland and half-rotten body fluids threatened to slay him. He’s not sure how a man like Theodore, utterly unaccustomed to such assaults, can stand it.

“Not so much.” Theodore stops close to the bars. He holds a scented handkerchief to his nose. “I’ve come to make your situation clear.”

“Pretty damn clear to me. This ain’t my first rodeo.”

“No, I would think not. Although that would have been many years ago now, if I don’t miss my guess.”

“Yeah, back then all I had to do to land in here was try to avoid starvation. Now I gotta get decked in the face with a mud pie.”

“It’s simple disorderly misconduct, no more than a few days, I should think. After all, the fellow you hit is a nobody – and _I_ certainly won’t be advocating for him.”

Barnum releases a gravelly chuckle. “I should have known you sent him. Well, so much for the word of a gentleman.”

“Our deal remains unviolated. I will never accuse you of indecent relations. On the other hand, I made no promises regarding future transgressions of a different nature. I seem to recall a shooting murder that took place about a month ago, for which they never found a suspect. It may interest you to know that I am aware of a man who could identify you and your cohort positively as the murderers.”

Barnum stares. “You inhuman bastard,” he swears.

“Really…”

“You had me _followed_.”

“It was kind of you to buy my son’s ‘freedom’ with such a violent act.” Theodore breathes in slowly through the handkerchief, then releases. “To no effect; he left you anyway. However, I couldn’t be sure that you wouldn’t need keeping in line at some point in the future. Let your time here serve as a mere ‘shot over the bow,’ if you will. A reminder of the peril of humiliating me.”

“Is it Phillip’s play? You resent that he signed it over to me?”

“It’s too late to change the situation, but keep this in mind: Phillip’s connection to it must _never_ be confirmed. If it is, if you threaten my family in any such way again…” Theodore shrugs. “Well. Suffice to say, murder is an even worse charge than sodomy.”

Barnum’s chest heaves; his molars grind together. “Your son told me you were tricky,” he forces out, “but I didn’t think you’d stoop to this. When he hears about this…”

“You will not involve him. This no longer concerns him.” Theodore steps back, shaking his head. “Honestly, Barnum, it smells even worse here than at your circus.”

He waves for the guard to escort him back out and Barnum finds himself, once more, in darkness. 

* * *

“Is _everyone_ running away now?”

Nora stands in the doorway to Charles’ room, tattooed hands on her hips. Deng peers over her shoulder with darkly accented eyes. Neither woman looks impressed.

“Nope.” Charles closes his small suitcase with a _snap_. “I’m going to find Carlyle and kick his ass into gear.”

“You don’t even know where he lives.” Nora’s tone is reasonable, but there’s an edge to it. “And even if you did, how are you going to afford a train ticket?”

“Kid’s fare.” Charles hauls his suitcase off the floor with a grunt. “And if that doesn’t work I’ll just fake some kind of illness. Some sweet old lady’ll take the bait.”

“You will not make it.” Deng thrusts a slender leg into his path, effectively blocking him. “Your suitcase is almost as big as you are.”

“Look, if I have to throw it in the river and _float_ to Philadelphia, I promise you I’m gonna get there.”

“You would be the biggest rat drowned in the Delaware,” Deng deadpans.

“So what, we leave Barnum down there in The Tombs? Come on, you heard what Wheeler said. This is bigger than disorderly conduct, or whatever they call defending yourself nowadays. Old Man Carlyle’s in on it somehow. And it’s time for Young Man Carlyle to take back his own.”

“And you think you’re…what do you call it? ‘The man for the job?’”

“Exactly,” Charles says, puffing out his chest. “They don’t call me general for nothin’.”

“They call you general because you look cute in a uniform.” Nora nods at Deng. “Come on, if he’s going to retake the circus he’s going to need firepower.”

“Well, I never object to a pretty sidekick…”

“Then show us which side you want kicked,” Deng retorts. “No problem for us. Nora, will you have room for a couple of extra knives?”

"I think I can make shift."

“While we’re making it official and all,” Charles says, following them down the hall, “I feel like our new act needs a name. How about Charles’ Angels?”

“How about,” Nora says, taking a sharp right into her room, “you stop talking and we give you your own seat on the train?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I officially apologise for that awful reference. I don't plan these things, just so you know.
> 
> Next chapter up Monday July 8!


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Phillip stands tall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter I've been longing to write since...well, since I started this story 65 000 words ago. I hope you've found it worth waiting for!

“They love you, Phillip. You enchant them every time you take the stage.” Edgar’s voice is bright, buoyant, soaring on the winds of success. “If the crowds love you even half as much you’ll be able to get any part in the future that your heart desires.”

“Seems like it.” Phillip turns to his companion, who is glowing with oblivious happiness. “Can you give me a moment? I need to get some air.”

“Of course, love,” Edgar says, surprised. He hesitates, then touches Phillip’s cheek. “Are you all right? I thought you’d be ecstatic.”

“I am.” Phillip smiles, gripping his celebratory cigar tightly. He likes the taste of them, but in the past they’ve made his voice hoarse. For the sake of the circus he’s been abstaining; tonight he took one with the hollow acceptance that it doesn’t matter anymore. “I just need space to think.”

“All right.” Edgar withdraws his hand. “I’ll call for my carriage, then.”

The Walnut’s grand porch is nearly deserted on a rehearsal night. Phillip steps out, clamping the cigar between his teeth. Rain lashes down as he fumbles for a match. Finding one, he flicks it alight. Thick smokes fumes from his nostrils and tickles the back of his throat. He throws away the match with more force than necessary.

 _Screw my voice_ , something in him snarls. _Screw their plays, screw their ambitions._ He can feel himself mentally slipping back down that slope of destruction, just the way Barnum said he would, just the way he knew he would. After tonight’s rehearsal, so successful in everyone else’s eyes, he’s full of wanton ferocity. He already knows this is the night he will throw himself into bed with Edgar, because everything he worked for is gone and someone else’s dreams have taken over again.

In an instant everything wrong with his life hurtles like a landslide onto that cigar. Viciously he hurls it at the nearest pillar and steps into the rain, turning his bared teeth up into the deluge. People are probably staring, but who cares? It’s no business of theirs.

Rivulets stream through his coiffed hair, melting its perfect waves into a slick mess. The shoulders of his good jacket quickly soak through. He holds out his hands, palm-up, until they fill and overflow with rain.

_I don’t even know how to pray. I used to think it was something you never forgot. Now I wonder if it’s something I ever truly knew._

He hears Barnum’s voice, preserved from some late-night jaw they had one evening as they crunched leftover peanuts in the office. _“This is how I see it, Phil.”_ What were they even talking about? Caroline and Helen’s bedtime routines? Why Phillip never darkens the door of a church? _“God’s gonna do what he’s gonna do, and you’re gonna do what you’re gonna do, and I never heard of an honest prayer hurting anything so I don’t see the harm in trying.”_

_“I wouldn’t know. I don’t pray a lot these days.”_

_“It’s not hard.” Barnum points at the sky. “Just start talking in that direction.”_

_“Seriously?”_

_“What did you think? Walk over live coals and spit three times in a blind pig’s eye? Pardon my French, but if I was God I wouldn’t have time for that shit.”_

“Dear God.” Phillip’s lips drip rainwater onto his collar. “Give me a reason.”

The rain keeps falling.

“I said,” Phillip says, enunciating, “give me a reason.”

There’s no answer. And he hadn’t expected one. He lowers his face, hands still extended, and there on the bottom step stand three people staring at him.

Charles speaks first, water running from his coat sleeves onto his suitcase and from his suitcase onto his feet. “Barnum’s in the clink,” he says. “You gotta come back.”

“What?” Phillip stares at him, a wild feeling slowly rising in his chest. “Barnum’s…in the Tombs?”

“Yeah. They threw him in there this morning.”

“But…why?” Phillip’s brain is still trying to process seeing his friends here in Philadelphia; it can’t handle anything else.

“Disorderly conduct. Some guy threw mud at him.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“You’re telling me.” Charles drops his suitcase on the step and slumps down on it. Did they _walk_ here from the train station? “I guess Barnum took a swing or something, and then he had to hold W.D. back…”

Phillip’s hands drop to his sides. Water from his palms splatters unnoticed on the ground. “Is he hurt?” he asks numbly.

“Don’t think so, but it’s not exactly Switzerland in those cells.”

Phillip looks at Nora and Deng. “You came out here to get me,” he says.

“We didn’t know what else to do.” Nora hugs herself against the chill; her knapsack is sodden. “We’re afraid something worse will happen.”

“Like what?”

Nora looks at him unhappily. “Barnum went to see the man who…yes?” Deng gestures at Phillip. “He hurt him. But then someone else killed him. So maybe your father…”

_I should have stayed. My place is there._

It’s like a clarion call, that thought. It’s the truth, deep-down God’s-honest, and fits so neatly into the other truths about himself that he wonders why it took so long.

“You came to get me,” Phillip says, but this time the words are sweet, the confirmation of a belonging he never dared to believe. “All this way.”

Deng frowns at him. “Well, _yes_ ,” she says. “Who else?”

 _All this way…_ Phillip stares into space, quickly calculating how long it will take to reach New York. Too long to spare Barnum a bad night – but that can’t be helped. If they take a night train he can be at the Tombs by tomorrow morning.

“My friend has a carriage.” Phillip expects his voice to shake, but it’s perfectly steady. “I have to send a telegram before we leave.”

“You’re coming back?” A smile flitters at the corners of Nora’s mouth. “Really?”

“Yes.” That word is firm, decided in a way it hasn’t been in many years, and it feels like a breath of spring air blowing into a musty crypt. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have left you with this mess. But I know someone who can help.”

Phillip turns as someone emerges from the Walnut, speaking before he even identifies it as Edgar. “We have some guests accompanying us. Also, I need to stop at the post office. And then I’m taking the next train back to New York.”

It all proceeds from his mouth without a hitch, these plans and certainties. Edgar freezes in the act of pulling on his gloves. “You can’t be serious,” he says at last. “We have a meeting tomorrow…”

“Cancel it,” Phillip says abruptly. The threads of his life here are already unravelling, and he makes no effort to pull them back together. “Cancel everything.”

“Everything…?”

“The understudy can take my place in the play. He’s excellent; I have no worries about him.” Edgar’s carriage has stopped at the curb, and without thinking Phillip trots down the steps to shoo Charles off his suitcase. He lifts it easily on the roof rack and jerks open the door. “Get inside, quickly, before you all freeze.”

Did he have this look of blank astonishment that wonderful, amazing night in the bar? “I demand to know what’s going on,” Edgar says, but he’s not demanding, he’s pleading. And yes, it still has the power to touch Phillip’s heart – but not the way it used to. _Barnum assaulted my rapist to free me. Why didn’t I stay? Why?_

 _Why didn’t you force the truth out of Barnum?_ an insidious voice whispers. _Because you didn’t want to know. And now this._

“I’ll explain on the way back.” Phillip holds the door impatiently, not even bothering to defer to Edgar’s status. “Please, Edgar, we have to go _now_. It could be a matter of life and death.”

Edgar comes down the steps slowly, still adjusting his gloves. He looks lost, cut free, but not in the way Phillip is. “Go where you have to go,” he says finally, as if his brain is running at half speed. “My carriage is at your disposal.”

“Edgar, please.” Phillip doesn’t know what he’s asking, but he asks it anyway. “I don’t want you to be angry.”

“I’m not angry, love.” Edgar stares at the carriage as if he’s seeing through it and its strange occupants. “I’ll meet you at your rooms. Do what you have to do.”

After a few moments, Phillip has no choice but to comply. 

* * *

In the post office Phillip bends over the telegraph form and finds he doesn’t know what to write. His pen hovers, undecided, while the clerk subtly watches him.

It’s been years since he’s spoken to Michael. Fear, shame, and anger have become the cement holding together a wall, and if he takes that wall down what will he find? More of the same on the other side? Blame thrown his way? Rejection? Disdain?

 _But this is who you’ve become. You_ have _to face it._

His pen scratches against the paper. _Need legal help,_ he writes. _In trouble with Father. Please come home._ He hesitates, but there’s more to be said, and he knows it. _Forgive me_.

He signs his name and hands it over.

Edgar is already at the flat when they arrive. He stands by the front door even though he has a key, waiting with uncustomary hesitancy. He doesn’t look at the Oddities. Phillip unlocks the door and they all tramp in, leaving foot-sized puddles behind them.

Phillip doesn’t bother packing more than one bag. He didn’t come here with much, and anything he’s acquired since is Edgar’s, if not in fact then by association. While the Oddities hungrily raid his kitchen he and Edgar have what will turn out to be their last conversation.

“I still don’t understand why you feel the need to go back.” Edgar stands in the doorway, as if he can somehow stop Phillip’s titanic momentum. “That life is behind you. Barnum can manage on his own. _You’re_ destined for fame and success. And I love you.”

“I’ve never doubted that.” Phillip throws in the last of his shirts, not bothering to fold it, thinking gleefully that it will be horribly wrinkled by the time he gets to New York. “Except that you’re never going to leave your wife and that’s a problem.”

“She helps to ensure my respectability – for your sake, of course.”

“Respectability means nothing without honour. My father taught me that. I’m not going to enjoy you at her expense. If you can’t do what you need to do, then I’m going back where I belong.”

He doesn’t say _Anne_. But _Anne_ is what he’s thinking, and always has been. It’s just taken him a while to admit it.

“You will never belong with them.” Edgar watches him snap his suitcase shut. “You don’t belong with freaks.”

“And _you’ve_ never felt like a freak?” Phillip shrugs on a dry jacket and runs his fingers through his damp hair. It’s a lost cause. “That’s what we are, Edgar. I’m just going where no one looks down on me for it.”

“And what am I supposed to tell Wayne?” Edgar switches tactics. “Everybody else? You’ve been highly touted as an up-and-coming star. You can’t just turn your back on that.”

“Tell them the truth. I have a family emergency to attend to. Someone else will have to take the stage.”

“This isn’t your family, Phillip.” Edgar’s voice is gentle, but there’s a hardness underlying it that stings like salt in a wound. “These are _circus performers_.”

Phillip turns. “So am I,” he says. “I love you, Edgar, but not as much as I love them. All of them. And that’s why I have to go home.”

He picks up his suitcase and tries to push past. Edgar grabs him and, in a last desperate move, pins him to the wall with a kiss. It’s deep, and passionate, and part of another life that Phillip is hungering to leave behind. He twists away, bangs his knee with a heady thrill on the door, feels a brief instance of phantom pain between his thighs, and then he’s out in the parlour calling to his friends, not stopping, because what would he stop for?

“I love you, Phillip,” he hears as he closes the front door, before the gentle _snick_ of the latch cuts them off.

* * *

Phillip books three sleeper compartments on the train. His companions abruptly pass out, snoring softly, as if the world is now safe in his hands. He himself doesn’t sleep; his thoughts race far ahead of the train to where Barnum sits in a cell.

_Charity must be desperate. I wonder if they’ll let her post bail. I wonder if they’re feeding him. Will he sleep tonight? Does he think someone’s coming for him? Does he have any idea they came to get me?_

The train pulls into New York early the next morning. Bleary and disoriented – did he literally just abandon his life and career in Philadelphia? – Phillip rouses his companions.

“You three go back to the circus,” he says, hailing a buggy. “I’m going to the Tombs to sort this out.”

Charles looks up at him – almost concernedly, Phillip thinks. “You sure you don’t want backup?” he asks. “They say that’s a pretty mean place.”

“I think it’s better that I go alone.” Phillip smiles for the first time since they showed up on the Walnut porch. “Thank you all for coming to get me.”

“Just get Barnum out of there and we’ll be even.” Charles gives him a little salute as the cabbie barks at the horses. “Hey, Carlyle? Good to have you back.”

Phillip doesn’t go directly to the Tombs. He stops at their regular post office first. He waits until the clerk finishes with his previous customer and then says, with a nervous smile, “You may remember me – Phillip Carlyle. I wonder if…”

“Mister Carlyle. Of course.” The clerk produces a telegram from behind the counter before Phillip can even ask. “This came in for you late last night.”

Phillip takes it with trembling fingers. He finds he can’t bear to look at it – so many years have come down to this slip of paper. “I’m sorry,” he laughs, the sound shaking up and down, “but I have an unusual request. Would you…” He indicates the telegram.

“Read it to you, sir?”

“I’m not the first one to ask that, am I?”

“Telegrams can be nervy things, sir. You’d be surprised how many people are unmanned by the prospect of divorces, deaths, business transactions gone bad…” The clerk takes the telegram and clears his throat. “With pleasure, sir, it reads as follows.” He lowers his voice discreetly. “ _Booked passage, home 10 days, stop. Forgive me too, stop. Michael_.” He looks up. “Without wanting to overstep my bounds, sir, that seems like good news.”

 _Booked passage, home 10 days. Forgive me too._ “It’s _very_ good news,” Phillip manages. He tucks the telegram into his jacket pocket and tries to clamp down on his tears. “Thank you, sir. I appreciate it.”

“Anytime, Mister Carlyle.” The clerk smiles. “Always a pleasure.”

* * *

Phillip finds Charity holding vigil in the waiting area of the Tombs. As he enters she raises her eyes to his, as if he has called her name. For a moment she does nothing. Then, like the sun bursting from a bank of clouds, her face transforms.

She stands without a word and runs into his arms. She presses her cheek to his neck and it’s not clear to him who is supporting whom; they’re both shaking. “You came back,” she whispers. “I prayed you would.”

“Is he okay?”

“I don’t know. I’ve been here all night. Lettie and Jeremy are staying with the girls. Phillip…” Her voice cracks. “They won’t even let me post bail.”

“It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not. He can’t be in here, Phillip. He came here as a child…they beat him. He can’t be in here.”

Phillip pulls back to see her face, blotchy and drawn from a long night. “Do you have the money?” he asks.

“Right here.” Charity indicates the envelope in her hand, bent and wrinkled from being clutched for hours. “They won’t listen to me. It’s a minor misdemeanor at most; I don’t understand the problem.”

The problem is twofold: she’s a woman, and she’s married to P.T. Barnum. “There’s no problem,” he assures her firmly. “He’s getting out of here, I promise.”

Taking her hand in his, he approaches the man on guard behind the desk. “I’m here on behalf of Charity Barnum,” he says as Charity sets down the money. “This is the bail money for her husband – my business partner.”

“Not valid.” The guard isn’t indolent, exactly; he has a look in his eye that’s all too aware. “Come back in a few days.”

“I’m afraid that won’t be sufficient.” Phillip rides over the man’s protestations with, “If you can’t give us satisfaction, then I demand to see your superior.”

The guard eyes them. “Don’t know that he has time to see you,” he says.

“Before you go and check, which I’m sure you’re eager to do, let me make something perfectly clear.” Phillip leans forward. “My name is Phillip Carlyle. I’m a famous playwright from a rich family. My brother is a renowned barrister, and if you don’t produce your superior within the next three minutes I will bring an action against you that will end your career.”

Like a modern-day miracle, the guard disappears without another word.

It’s probably thirty seconds later when he reappears with a slightly more important-looking man. “Mister Carlyle,” this officer says respectfully, glancing at Charity. “I regret that the situation is so difficult. I understand Barnum was arrested for brawling in front of his circus.”

“A charge I have reason to doubt. But I see no reason why the man can’t be released to his family. You understand who he is – and who I am?”

“Yes, sir, I do.” The officer chews on his lip anxiously for a moment. “You are one of _the_ Carlyles?”

“Just so.”

“And your brother…?”

“I believe his total defeats before the bar amount to two – and one of those to this day is a matter of vigorous dispute.”

“An honour to make his brother’s acquaintance.” The officer gives them a sweaty smile. “I think Mister Barnum has learned his lesson – I see no reason to prolong his captivity.”

Charity’s fingers squeeze Phillip’s. He squeezes hers in return. “Excellent,” he says. “Then he can be released immediately?”

“Of course. The money is in order…Count the money,” he says sharply to his subordinate, who sulkily goes about his task. “Sir, madam, if you will wait here…”

“Phillip, will you go in?” Charity’s eyes plead with him. “He won’t want me to see him in there – but I think he needs to see you. Please, will you go in?”

“Of course.” Phillip pushes away his persistent anxiety and steels himself. “We’ll be out in no time.”

It stinks. Phillip gags as they enter, immediately fishing out his handkerchief. He’s been sensitised to smells like this all over again by delicate living – but nothing in the circus could have prepared him for this ungodly reek. Rumour has it the Tombs, fashioned to resemble an Egyptian crypt, were built on swampland. Not only are the foundations sinking, but the resulting odour is infamous the country over.

As they pass the cells prisoners shift within, sometimes hooting or catcalling, sometimes merely staring with hollow eyes. Phillip tries not to stare back, but he’s drawn by their haunted faces, their slouched demeanours, as if nothing is worth being upright for in any sense of the word.

_I know how that feels. Dear God, I never thought I would sympathise with prisoners of the Tombs._

He tries not to startle at every noise. He keeps reminding himself of the protective bars, of the presence of the officer, and of Barnum waiting at the end of this dank passageway. _One day. One day I’ll be free of what they did to me._ One foot in front of the other, keep going, just keep going.

“Mister Barnum.” The officer stops in front of a tiny cell, rapping the bars lightly. “You’re being released. This gentleman secured it – I’m afraid there was a minor mix-up.”

Barnum looks up. He’s unshaven, thirsty, with mud still caked in his hair and in the crevices of his face. Something dark resides in his eyes, something Phillip doesn’t like, but from out of that darkness struggles the light of recognition.

“I’m sorry, P.T.” Phillip speaks with a hoarse voice that has nothing to do with the bad air. “I’m sorry I left you here.”

“Phillip?” Barnum’s hand goes out to grasp the bars. He stares as if Phillip is a visitor from another planet. “Are you really here?”

“Yes.”

“But…I don’t understand.” Barnum looks at the officer as if he can somehow provide illumination.

“I must apologise for your difficult night, sir.” The officer fishes out his keys. “If you’ll stand back from the bars I’ll have this door open in no time.”

Barnum struggles to his feet, pressing back against the wall. His cellmate gives them nothing more than a cursory glance before rolling back over on the single cot. “You came back,” Barnum says as the door squeaks open. “You really did.”

“I had three visitors in the persons of Charles, Deng, and Nora. Very insistent. Wouldn’t leave without me.”

“God bless them,” Barnum breathes, and in two strides he has Phillip clutched in a hug.

“I knew you would come back to us,” he murmurs. “It was just a matter of time.”

Phillip lets the man indulge himself for a bit. Then…“Mmph. P.T., you _stink_.”

“I know.” Barnum’s breath ruffles his hair. “And that’s just one night.”

“Are you okay, though? They didn’t…”

“I’m fine.” Barnum pulls back to look at him. “What about you? Did you travel all night?”

“As a matter of fact.” That dark look is still in Barnum’s eyes, portending Phillip knows not what, but it’s overlaid by that familiar brightness he’s so deeply missed. “Charity’s waiting outside – she was here all night trying to free you.”

“Ah, dammit…”

“Almost as stubborn as you are, but usually to better effect.” Phillip winds an arm around Barnum’s waist. “You look a little shaky.”

“I’ll be fine. Just get me out of here, Phil.”

When Charity sees her husband emerge from the Tombs, Phillip is glad he’s here to witness it. It’s a long time before either Barnum finds the will to break their embrace.

* * *

That afternoon Phillip, heady with exhaustion and emotion, prepares for the last move on this particular chessboard. He stands before the same bathroom mirror as he did the night he was raped, fixing his hair so that it obeys his every whim, scrubbing every last trace of travel from his face. He puts on his best clothes, adjusting them until the most fastidious fashion guru could find no flaw, buffing his cufflinks until they gleam.

He wears shoes this time, polished to a painful shine. He is sober and cologned; no one would guess he just came from the Tombs. When he buttons his coat and perches his top hat on his head he finds in the mirror the epitome of gentlemanly taste.

Before he leaves the circus he slips Michael’s telegram in his breast pocket. He passes through a silent crowd of watching Oddities, posted like guards for the circus. “Go get him, Carlyle,” Lettie says as he passes. He tips his hat to her, and the circus doors close behind him.

“Mister Phillip Carlyle.” Phillip presents his card to the butler, his wrist cocked at the correct angle. “I’m here to see my father.”

The butler admits him to the front hall, though not without lingering hesitation. “I’ll announce you directly,” he says, bowing a little. “Please wait here.”

Within five minutes he returns. “This way, sir,” he says, and Phillip finds himself treading the old familiar path to the study.

“I’m not here for an argument.” Phillip speaks levelly as Gerard departs; he holds Michael’s telegram between his thumb and forefinger. “Nor do I have anything to say but this: if you had left P.T. alone I never would have come back. Whatever happens now, you’ve brought it on yourself.”

“I don’t believe those are the words of a son to his father.” Theodore stands stiffly behind his desk, ostensibly to display the advantage of his height; today he doesn’t seem so tall. “And what do you have to say for your time in Philadelphia?”

“Nothing.” Phillip lays the telegram on the desk. “I’ve contacted Michael. He’ll be home in just over a week.”

“And what purpose could that possibly serve?”

“Our feud is over, Father. It’s in the past.”

“I find that assertion hard to believe.”

“So do I. But it’s there in writing.” Phillip snugs his hat back on his head. “I thought that by leaving I would benefit my friends. I see now that they benefit more from my presence. Thank you for that lesson.”

“You are sadly deluded if you think Michael will take your part in this contest.” Theodore speaks a shade too quickly, like a man clutching at a cliff edge. “If I recall correctly, the last time you asked him to do that he backed you onto a hot stove.”

“Goodbye, Father. When Michael arrives, I’ll inform you.”

“Phillip, if you leave now –”

He leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter up Monday July 15th!


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which brothers unite.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments and kudos are the wind in my sails, as this long journey has proven. Enjoy the second-to-last chapter in this strangely protracted tale!

Phillip passes the days until Michael’s return at the Barnum house. His old apartment is rented to someone else by now, not that he would want it back. He’s not ready to see the alley where he was assaulted. With the help of Charles, who has taken to trailing him around, he finds another apartment even closer to the circus, somewhat dated but slightly bigger. An idea is growing in his head, but he bides his time; no need to rush now that he’s home.

When Caroline and Helen see him they end up knocking him over, each girl claiming a shoulder to cry on. He apologises; he doesn’t know what else to say, and it turns out they’re easy to distract by tales of his time in Philadelphia. It means _brotherly love_ , he informs them. They ask what brotherly love is. He explains it’s when you care for someone as much as you would your own brother. Helen innocently asks if Phillip went to Philadelphia so he could love more men, and Barnum snorts coffee up his nose.

No more Greek lessons, Phillip decides.

He tries to broach the subject of his contract with Barnum. He tries to talk about drawing up a new one, refining the clauses, strengthening the terms, every bit of legal parlance he can muster, but Barnum acts like he has no interest in talking about it. At last Phillip realises that Barnum doesn’t _want_ to admit there had been a breach of contract. Maybe in his mind there wasn’t one. After all, nothing was signed, nothing was altered. Phillip went away for a month and then he came back, and nothing changed.

It could be childishness. It could be grace.

He accepts it.

* * *

Michael’s boat arrives around noon on the tenth day. Phillip waits with Barnum on the dock as the passengers begin to disembark.

“What if he changed his mind about coming?” Phillip cranes his neck, searching in vain for the tall form of his brother. “What if he couldn’t make it? What if he’s still angry?”

“Stop it, Phillip.”

“But,” he frets.

“He’s on that boat. He’s thrilled to be here. It’s going to be a reunion worthy of the City of Brotherly Love.” Barnum says this with absolute certainty, the way he says most things. “Sometimes I think you like being anxious because you know it drives me nuts.”

“He’s my brother.”

“Exactly. I don’t see the problem.”

“Are you being insensitive so I’ll shut up?”

“I’m being realistic so you’ll stop being an idiot.”

“We’re reversing roles, then.”

At that moment Michael emerges at the top of the gangway. “He’s here,” Phillip chants, taking a step back. “Oh God, he’s here.”

“There, I told you.” Barnum gives him a push. “Go on.”

Michael walks down the gangway, scanning the crowd. Phillip doesn’t wave. “Go _on_ ,” Barnum urges, pushing him again. “No more fear, remember?”

“P.T., look at him. He’s…I don’t even know him.”

“Phillip, my boy, if you don’t start moving, I will pick you up and _throw_ you at him.”

“Insensitive.”

“Idiot.”

“I’m going,” Phillip says, stepping forward. “But you’ll pay.”

He weaves through the crowd, his stomach contracting painfully. He knows Barnum’s not far behind, less to watch his back than to make him _feel_ that someone is watching his back. He skirts a small knot of reunited relatives and Michael is suddenly there.

“Phillip?” Michael is as tall and broad-shouldered as ever, though he’s put on maybe ten or so pounds in the interim. The old furrow of concentration between his eyes has deepened; his face is marked by a distinguished black beard. “My God, is that you?”

Tears spring to Phillip’s eyes. “I’m sorry,” he says, all his prepared speeches fleeing like dust in a sandstorm. “I’m so…”

“Don’t.” Michael strides forward. “Don’t, unless you want me to lose my dignity.”

He loses it anyway. They stand there clutching each other as Phillip weeps with abandon. “I tried to fix it,” he cries against Michael’s shoulder. “I couldn’t fix it.”

“Shh, no more tears.” Michael grips him painfully. “I’ve got you.”

“Help me.”

“I will.” Michael’s hand presses against his lower back where the old scar still hides. “No more tears.”

It’s a while before either of them can obey his injunction. When Phillip finally steps back he sees Barnum standing nearby. “Michael, meet my friend P.T. Barnum,” he says, wiping away tearful residue from his cheeks. “P.T., this is my brother.”

Michael hesitates, just the fraction of a second, but it’s enough. “No, he’s not _that_ kind of friend,” Phillip says. He knows Michael will never understand a man’s attraction to other men, but at least he can assure him it’s not the case with Barnum. “He’s my business partner. And the reason I’m not drunk around the clock.”

“Then it’s a pleasure to meet him.” Michael shakes Barnum’s hand firmly. “Michael Carlyle, sir. I’ve heard about your…circus.”

“Well, imagine that.” Barnum grins self-satisfactorily. “I’m an international icon.”

“Just what you needed to hear,” Phillip says dryly. “Michael, please try not to flatter him, he’s already spent a fortune upsizing his hats.”

“So you’ve finagled my brother into your business, have you?” Michael glances at Phillip. “That’s odd. I thought you were still producing plays.”

“I was. I am. Things have gotten…complicated since you last saw me.”

“More complicated than they were then?” Michael smiles wistfully. “I must say, Phillip: whatever mischief you’re up to these days, you look more the gentleman now than you ever did.”

“He cleans up well, doesn’t he?” Barnum squeezes Phillip’s shoulder. “Listen, this story takes about three hours to tell, and you’ve had a long trip. Phil’s staying at my house until his apartment comes open; will you do me the honour of allowing me to host _both_ Carlyle brothers?”

“Oh, Lord,” Phillip sighs. “There goes our hat budget.”

“I’ll gladly accept, sir.” Michael retrieves his bag. “But won’t we overcrowd you?”

“That won’t be a problem,” Phillip says as Barnum grins like a shark. “You’ll understand when you get there.”

* * *

The story takes longer than three hours. Phillip explains everything to Michael in an alcove in the garden; Michael’s face is drawn and thoughtful as Phillip tells him, in a near whisper, of the rape. Michael visibly struggles to believe it though he retains the customary calm of their mother. Men aren’t raped, especially those who never say no. It’s the only part of the story Phillip regrets revealing, and they move on from it quickly.

It’s hard to know what Michael really thinks of Barnum. Both men are perfectly civil, perfectly charming, and Barnum is clearly anxious to make a good impression. Despite this, more than once Michael sends Phillip a look verging on disbelief.

They take Michael to see the workings of the circus. He hums politely at everything he is shown, nods patiently at every explanation – as if any of it is even remotely logical – and in the end cautiously pronounces the circus basically harmless. Now Michael _and_ Barnum are sneaking looks at Phillip behind the other’s back. _Are you actually connected with this man?_ each seems to demand. _How can that be?_

Phillip leaves them to wonder.

Back at the Barnum house Michael steeples his fingers over his stomach. His expression is pensive. “Here is how I see the situation,” he says at last, and everyone leans forward slightly. “Financially speaking, I can’t conceive of a reason for alarm – at present. The circus appears to be holding its own, and even if that changes _The Last Foray_ will likely provide some cushioning.”

Phillip’s shoulders relax a fraction.

“However,” Michael adds, and the furrow between his eyes deepens, “the matter of the inheritance is more complicated. If our father decides to officially disinherit you I’m afraid I’m powerless to intervene.”

“I understand,” Phillip says even as Barnum interjects, “Are you _sure?_ ”

“It’s Father’s money, you understand,” Michael says. “What he does with it is entirely his prerogative. Most well-to-do families have complex stipulations – written and unwritten – regarding a child’s right to claim an inheritance.”

Barnum frowns, clearly troubled by the confirmation of Phillip’s fears. “Don’t give it another thought, P.T.,” Phillip urges. “It’s not that important. Not so much so that I would leave the circus for it. What else, Michael?”

“I have only one card to play as far as convincing Father to leave Barnum and the circus alone. I can’t imagine that he would permit a family squabble to go to court, especially father against son; an embarrassing public dispute runs contrary to his _raison d’être._ Therefore, I offer this: if Father attempts to prosecute Mister Barnum, I will agree to stand as Barnum’s legal defense.”

“You would do that?” Phillip asks, amazed and delighted.

“I owe you a debt, and we both know why,” Michael says gently. “And before you tell me that brothers don’t owe brothers, allow me to assert that it is _especially_ brothers who owe brothers. It’s protection I should have offered you many years ago – let me make this offer now, belated as it is.”

Phillip nods, unable and unwilling to refuse. Barnum clears his throat. “I’m much obliged,” he says in a low voice. Charity’s fingers twine with his. “I wish I could do something to repay you.”

“My brother sits here clothed and in his right mind, if not entirely sensible.” Michael’s expression is sober. “I believe you’ve done all I could have asked.”

* * *

Phillip and Michael go out to the porch after supper, listening to the rowdy sounds of Barnum and Charity playing with Caroline and Helen inside. “What do you see in him?” Michael asks, taking out a trimmed cigar.

“I think it’s more what he sees in me.”

“And you’re not bedding him?”

“Upon my word.”

“Well, that’s a mercy.” Shaking his head, Michael lights the cigar. “God knows what he’d have you doing.”

Phillip can’t help sniggering. “I thought the same thing the first time I saw him,” he confesses. “Sick, isn’t it?”

Michael smiles, blowing an aromatic smoke-stream into the evening air. “It’s good to see you again, Phillip,” he says. “I’ve missed having a brother.”

“So have I.”

“And your heart is set on the circus?”

“It is.”

“I always knew you were born to chart a strange course.” Michael glances up at the stars. “I just didn’t think it would be quite this strange.”

* * *

The next morning Phillip finds Charles among the costumes, polishing his military boots with vigorous strokes. “Charles, I have a proposition for you,” he says.

“Still straight, lover boy.”

Phillip grins. “Good,” he says. “It could be awkward otherwise.”

Charles squints up at him. “See, I think I’m going to be very comfortable in my new apartment,” Phillip continues. “There’s lots of room and the price is good.”

“Yeah?”

“But I’m kind of nervous about the drinking. I don’t want to find myself alone with too much time on my hands. And I still have nightmares sometimes. About…you know.”

Charles nods. “Yeah,” he says darkly. “Not alone there.”

“I figured. So I thought, seeing as I have two bedrooms now and it’s so close to the circus…”

“You asking me to move in with you, Swell?”

Phillip shrugs. “I think I could use a chaperone, don’t you?” he says. “With all the trouble I’ve been in.”

Charles stares at him. “You want _me_ to move in with you?” he asks.

“Could be fun. Unless you decide to be an asshat, but I feel like I could work with that.”

“You want _me_ to move in with _you_.”

“Is that a yes?”

“ _Hell_ yes!” Charles tosses down the boot and abruptly makes for the door. “Hey, Leeds, guess where I’m moving?”

Over lunch later that day, Phillip tells Barnum. Barnum sits at his desk and laughs until he cries. “It’s your funeral,” he says when he can speak again. “And a damn fine stroke of genius.”

“Then you approve?”

“Approve? Consider it _mandated_.”

* * *

That night Michael is invited to a welcome-home dinner with their parents. Phillip, specifically, is not. “It’s probably better this way,” Michael says at the door of the carriage, the estate’s lights twinkling in the twilight. “I can have a chance to talk to Father without the two of you getting into an argument.”

“Right,” Phillip agrees, though the rejection still stings. “Good luck.”

“I don’t need luck.” Michael smiles up at him, and Phillip remembers being young and thinking there was nothing Michael couldn’t do. “Don’t worry, all will be well.”

Phillip has the coachman drive him back three hours later from the theatre. At first he’s determined to wait in the carriage until Michael emerges. But then he sees the light in the study window, and the light in the parlour, and an idea seizes him. He gets out and heads around the back to the kitchen entrance. He slips in while the cook is busy bawling out a maid and finds his way to the parlour where his mother sits alone with her embroidery in her lap. She drops it when he speaks her name, turning her eyes up to his.

“Phillip.” She speaks in a near-whisper, as if afraid the servants will hear. “What are you doing here?”

“Don’t call Father. Please.” Phillip comes forward, one hand held placatingly out to her. “I just wanted to see you.”

It’s been many months since he’s last seen her face-to-face. She rises, laying aside her embroidery, and comes to meet him. She presses his face between her aging hands and kisses his cheek, leaving behind the airy scent of powder. “My boy,” she whispers. “Your friend said you were hurt. I didn’t know…”

“I’m fine now.” Phillip kisses her brow. “It’s okay.”

He doesn’t tell her that the nightmares still torment him sometimes, that he finds it hard to walk by alleys and turn his back to crowds. “Then sit down.” Edna motions him into a chair and softly closes the parlour doors. “Michael is with your father.”

“Yes, I know.” Phillip watches her as she reclaims her seat. It’s wearing on her, he can see that, though her composure is the same as ever. “How have you been?”

“Well.” She picks at the cloth with the needle, serenely observing the finessed movements. “And yourself?”

“I’ve found a new apartment closer to the circus. _The Last Foray_ debuts next week – I’ll be taking over some of the production now that I’m back.”

“Mm.”

“Will you go and see it, Mother? I’d like you to attend a showing. It’s the play I’ve always wanted to write, and I’ve been told it’s better than my other material.”

“Your other material was fine.”

“Maybe, but…”

“Phillip _._ ” Edna’s fingers tighten on the embroidery. “Please.”

He stares at her. “Please what?”

“Just…please.”

He watches her prick, pull, prick, pull at the fabric. “I’m doing well, Mother,” he says quietly. “That should be all that matters. Not what the people down the lane think of me.”

“You’re young. You don’t know how much is at stake.”

“I’m thirty years old, Mother.”

“To me, you will always be a child. Mine.” Edna looks up, and he’s astonished to see tears gleaming in her eyes. “When you destroy your future, you destroy mine too.”

“I’ve been trying to _save_ your future. Your dignity…” Phillip thrusts a hand through his hair. His secret has never been so close to falling from his lips as it is right now. “You don’t understand what I’ve been trying to do.”

“Then explain it to me. All I ever wanted was my family. When will someone explain why that was taken from me?”

“It’s ugly.”

“I know it’s ugly,” she says calmly. “It’s been ugly for years.”

They share the silence.

“Father had an affair.” Phillip speaks at last. “Thirteen years ago. Michael and I walked in on it. And when I tried to tell you, Father…hurt me. That’s why we’ve been fighting all these years. Because of that. And I’m sorry – so sorry that I made it worse than it already was.”

Edna’s fingers tremble on the needle. “Are you all right?” Phillip says, leaning forward. “Mother?”

“It doesn’t matter. Speak no more of it.”

“Of course it matters. He hurt you. Disgraced you. He wouldn’t even admit he was wrong. How can you…”

“I don’t want to hear another word about it.” Edna’s words are clipped. “Do you understand?”

“Mother…”

“ _Do you understand?_ ”

It takes Phillip a moment, but then he does, he sees the truth that has eluded him all these years. “You knew,” he says, his voice flat with disbelief.

She says nothing. Phillip gets up, brain whirling, and has to brace himself against the mantle. She’d known. All along, while he’d been battling with his father, whoring himself, hurting men and women in his headlong recklessness to force the truth, she’d _known_ – and he’d ruined himself in ignorance. “What was it all for then?” His voice is harsh. “Why the hell was I fighting?”

“Phillip,” she remonstrates, her brows puckering together. “Remember to whom you speak.”

For the first time in his life he despises her cool calm. “I _ruined_ myself. For _this_. And you – you didn’t even care.”

“Care!” She barks a laugh. “There was nothing I could do. This is what married men do. The less said of it, the better.”

“You’re wrong.” As fast as the bricks of his childhood illusions crumble Phillip gathers up new ones to shore up his reality. “That’s not the way marriage is meant to work. That’s not the way people are meant to be with each other – cheating and lying just to preserve reputation. What about everything you taught me as a child? What about truth and honour and love?”

“I wish I could believe in it. You’ll see one day. You’ll marry a pretty girl. She’ll provide for you at home. What you do outside those four walls –”

“I won’t hurt her that way,” Phillip snaps. “She deserves better.”

“A pretty sentiment.” Edna’s hands clutch the embroidery. “But one without weight.”

Phillip turns away. He can’t believe what’s happening. He feels like someone told him that the sun rises in the west and that water mixes with oil. “It’s no wonder Father gets away with everything,” he says, dazed. “You let him.”

“It’s not my place to raise a fuss.”

“As if ignoring it will make it not true. Did you know that girl didn’t _want_ to sleep with him? Do you know what we call that?”

“Phillip!” Edna looks sharply up. “I will not hear you slander your father in that way.”

Phillip laughs harshly. “Oh, well, as long as it’s _Father_ ,” he says.

“We all have our place. When we forget it, things fall apart.”

“He had me attacked for joining the circus. I was _raped._ Barnum told you as much, and you ignored it. Just like you ignored what Father did to you. When will you speak up? When will it be enough?”

She says nothing, her lips taut, and finally Phillip can’t stand it anymore. Without a word he turns away and finds his way into the night. He walks around the garden for a while, lost in thought, until the cool air soothes his frantic mind. Then he goes out front and finds Michael standing by the carriage. “Can we stop somewhere on the way home?” Phillip asks without preamble.

“Of course.” Michael looks at him curiously. “What were you doing here?”

“Never mind that.” Phillip hops in. “I have to do something before I lose my nerve.”

Michael sighs. “I would wait until morning, whatever it is,” he says. “But I’m not you.” 

* * *

“Mrs. Huntley.” Phillip clears his throat nervously. “I’m sorry to bother you so late.”

“Phillip?” Cora looks past him to where Michael waits in the carriage. Then she looks back at him. She’s still so beautiful, though the years have given her features a thoughtful cast. “What are you doing here? I haven’t seen you in years. Not,” she adds, blushing a little, “that I’ve forgotten you.”

“I haven’t forgotten you either.” He hesitates. “I meant to visit so many times, but I thought…I thought it would be better this way.”

“You’ve always been so kind, Phillip.”

“Not as kind as I should have been.” He’s struck by her demeanour. She seems peaceful, wise, as if she knows what she’s doing and where she’s going next. “You’re different. That is, you seem…not like before.”

“Oh, well, _before_ I was married to Ross.” She smiles. “He died.”

“Yes, I know. I mean, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t lie. I’m not.”

He fidgets a little. “Do you want to come in?” Cora asks, motioning. “I can put on some tea.”

“No, thank you, my ride is waiting.” After another awkward moment Phillip laughs suddenly. “I’m an idiot,” he confesses, shaking his head in amazement. “I can’t believe what I came here to do.”

“Why?” Cora laughs back. “Were you going to propose?”

“As a matter of fact.”

She bursts into giggles. “ _What?_ ” she gasps, leaning on the doorframe. “Seriously?”

“Cora, I wasn’t fair to you.” Phillip lifts his eyes to hers. “I never really apologised for that night, and I certainly never tried to make it right. I should have offered to marry you – at least you would have had an alternative to Huntley.”

“Oh, Phillip…”

“I had choices. You didn’t. And now you’re alone. So…I guess I’m offering now. Not that I’m much of a prize…I’m sure you’ve heard of the circus, and other things…”

He’s not even sure what he can possibly say to follow that. “I always knew you were a gentleman underneath all that bitterness,” Cora murmurs, cupping his face. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.”

Phillip tries to smile. If she says yes, his heart will break.

“No.” Cora drops her hands. “I love you for it. Dear, I couldn’t love you more. But I’m afraid you’d get in the way.”

“In the way?”

“You see, I’m in the process of converting the estate into a home for pregnant and abandoned girls.” Cora motions behind her, and for the first time he sees the evidence of construction in the front hall. “I always hated the way Ross used his money – for himself, mostly. Now it’s doing something productive. But under the circumstances, you understand that I can’t have an attractive young man running about the premises.”

“No, of course not,” Phillip says, so deliriously happy he can barely speak. “Wildly inappropriate.”

“And, you know, I wouldn’t want to disappoint the pretty little thing waiting for you.” Cora winks at his astonishment. “Don’t ask the obvious. It’s written all over your face.”

“I love her,” he blurts out.

“Of course you do.”

“I want to be good enough for her.”

“Of course you do,” Cora repeats.

“How do I do that?”

“Don’t leave her. Ever.”

“But I’m afraid _she_ won’t think she’s good enough for _me_. She’s…a different kind of woman.”

“Then make her see what she’s worth. Maybe she needs you to climb a balcony and serenade her. Maybe you’ll have to fight a duel or run into a burning building. You’re a creative man, and daring to boot – you’ll figure it out. Just never give up – that’s how you lose things you can never get back.”

“And you’ll be okay?”

Cora laughs. “Soon I’ll have more people inside these walls than I’ll know what to do with,” she says. “Don’t wed yourself to the past, Phillip – the future is more promising.”

In the carriage Phillip sits back against the seat, well aware of Michael’s scrutinising look. “I proposed,” he says happily.

Michael stares at him. “Marriage?” he asks finally.

“Mm-hm.”

There’s another pause. “What did she say?”

“No.” Phillip stares blissfully at the carriage roof, shaking his head in wonder. “Michael, you know, before tonight I didn’t think God would forgive me. But now…now I think maybe he has.”

He doesn’t try to explain. And Michael doesn’t try to make him.

* * *

When they finally get home, nearly as late as they did that night thirteen years ago, Barnum is waiting for them in the kitchen. Charity and the girls are already in bed, and a soft quiet has descended over the house. Michael bids Barnum good night and retires; Phillip grabs the last of the coffee from the stove. “So?” Barnum asks, watching as Phillip straddles a chair backward. “What happened?”

“Michael won.” Phillip stirs his coffee with the knife from Barnum’s crummy plate. “Of course he did. Not without some heated dialogue, I understand, but in the end he left Father no practical choice. Father’s message to me was simple: I walk a fine line regarding my future as a Carlyle. Basically, you and the circus are no longer in danger from him, but my status as a son and heir is extremely tenuous.”

“Phillip, I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t, Barnum.” Phillip puts down the knife. “You wouldn’t change a thing.”

“I would change what happened in that alley.”

“So would I, but not if it meant changing the night we met. That was the best night of my life. Don’t you dare say you would undo it.”

Barnum smiles. “No,” he agrees, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “God forbid.”

“I’ll be fine. It’s getting better – slowly, but it is.”

“You sure about that?”

“I’m home. Home is a good place to be. The best place. I’ll be fine.”

Barnum hesitates, then reaches out and presses his fingers to the back of Phillip’s hand. “I don’t know how to talk about it,” he says slowly. “I don’t know if anyone really does. But if what they did to you…if you ever _need_ to talk about that…”

“You’re here.”

“That’s right.”

Phillip smiles. “And I’m here,” he says.

Barnum turns his hand palm-up. “Maybe we should shake on that,” he says solemnly, eyes twinkling.

Phillip grasps that hand, so rugged and calloused, the skin rough like parchment. “Gladly,” he says. “Here’s to being home.”

“Here’s to _staying_ home.”

“You’ll hold me to it?”

“If you’ll hold me to it.”

Phillip can’t imagine having to remind Barnum, of all people, of the value of home and family. “Deal,” he says. “That’s what partners are for, right?”

“Partners are for drinking expensive whiskey and signing off on contracts.” Barnum grips his hand. “This – this what friends are for.”

Above them, the household sleeps on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter, guys - the epilogue! And then we're done. (I can't believe I'm saying that, but it's true.) Look for it on Monday July 22nd! And thank you so much for your faithful "patronage" - you are an outstanding group of readers.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which one adventure ends...and another begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy this last chapter, guys!

_Five weeks later…_

“Hurry up, Phil, we’re going to be late!”

“I know, I know.” Phillip adjusts his tie at his clean-shaven throat. They’ve just finished a show; now they’re off to a party. With the booming success of _The Last Foray_ Phillip’s started getting invitations to upscale events again. “Relax, P.T., we won’t be more than fashionably late.”

“I don’t want to be _any_ kind of late.” Barnum combs frantically at his hair with his fingers, staring despairingly at his own reflection. “You know how people talk.”

Phillip glances at his partner. Ever since that night in jail Barnum’s been increasingly like this – more worried about other people’s opinions, more irritated at Bennett’s vitriolic articles, more prone to self-criticism. Phillip doesn’t like the change. He hopes it’s just a phase – the lingering result of public humiliation, the aftertaste of having an expensive shoe ground into his mouth.

“We’ll get there in time.” Phillip lays a hand on Barnum’s shoulder. He can feel the muscles coiling anxiously. “I’m the one who’s supposed to worry, remember?”

That, at least, draws a smile. “I just don’t want to miss anything,” Barnum says, dropping his hands. He looks the very image of a pristine gentleman, except for the indelible hints of mischief around his mouth and eyes.

“And you won’t. I’ll introduce you to anyone you need to know, and something tells me they won’t forget they’ve met you.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“If you behave yourself it could be.”

“Cheeky pup,” Barnum grumbles, returning to playing with his hair.

“Grumpy old hound," Phillip returns, and makes his escape.

As he goes out into the hall he hears Lettie’s cackle from one of the rooms. Curious, he pokes his head in. “What’s going on?” he asks, surveying the gathered crowd.

“Come and see.” Lettie glances up, and her eyes brighten. “Lord, Carlyle, look at you – you look like a prince at a ball!”

“Thanks, Lettie.” Phillip looks over Jeremy’s shoulder to see Anne stretched out on her side, her hands clasped tightly between her knees. “Is she all right?” he asks in alarm, taking in her pale face and clenched eyes.

“Of course she is.” Nora is bent over Anne’s left foot. She has what looks like a tiny awl in one hand; with the other she uses a cloth to wipe away spots of blood. “She’s just getting a tattoo.”

“Oh.”

“How much longer?” Anne asks through bared teeth.

“About ten minutes.” Nora doesn’t look up from her work. “You’re doing wonderful, sweetheart. It’s going to look so pretty.”

Anne opens her eyes and Phillip finds himself looking directly into them. “Hi,” he offers, smiling. His heart thumps a bit too quickly. “You’re brave.”

She gives him a wavering smile. “Next time I’ll just do body paint.”

“What are you getting?”

“A snapdragon,” Lettie answers as Anne gasps sharply and squeezes her eyes shut. She looks slyly at Phillip. “Fascination and deception, Carlyle.”

Not only does he not understand what Lettie means, but that particular expression on her face makes him squirm. He excuses himself quickly and rushes off to find Barnum on the verge of a breakdown.

They get to the party two minutes late, well within the realm of _fashionable_. Instantly Barnum is at the height of his charm, determinedly making himself agreeable to anyone within earshot. After a few introductions Phillip decides his friend is doing just fine by himself and starts to mingle on his own, constantly forcing his hand away from the flutes of champagne.

“Phillip Carlyle!” A robust voice from his left grabs his attention. “Heavens, I didn’t think to see _you_ here.”

“Mister Slater.” Phillip turns with a smile, clasping the hand that’s extended to him. “I haven’t seen you in a dog’s age.”

“Since you were twenty or so, I should think.” Slater is a portly man with an open, expressive face that successfully hides shrewd business sense. “Didn’t your brother just visit – the lawyer?”

“Yes, he returned to Europe three weeks ago. He’s married to a beautiful lady of Italian descent who apparently can’t do without him.”

“A good reunion, was it?”

Phillip smiles. “The best,” he murmurs.

“You’ve made quite a name for yourself. The theatres adore you, if I may say so without flattery.”

“Please, sir, you embarrass me.”

“Now now, it’s becoming to accept the accolades we’ve earned. I went to see _The Last Foray_ – a remarkable piece of dramaturgy. I must ask, since I have your ear – what is the meaning of the golden bird in the rusted cage? I’m more familiar with the metaphor of the golden cage, and I confess I couldn’t make heads or tails of it.”

Phillip’s gaze briefly alights on Barnum, who is animatedly speaking with a well-known businessman. “It’s analogous to the phrase _a diamond in the rough,_ ” he says, turning back to Slater. “Roatly, the coal miner who befriends Claudette, possesses a rich soul but a poor purse. His tragedy is that he’s trapped by his poverty like a vein of gold in a rock – unmined for his beauty, because nobody realises it’s there.”

“Ahhh.” Slater stares at him, his eyes lighting up. “I see now. Brilliant.”

“Thank you. Tell me, do you still travel to London on business?”

“Oh yes. Wonderful people there – though they’re very strict in point of dress.”

“So I observed.”

“Oh? When did you go?”

“Just over a year ago – one of my plays had a chance to debut there, and I thought I would explore the city.”

“Yes, they love you there. Can’t stop talking about having _The Last Foray_ shown at Covent Garden. The Queen is such a patron of the arts, and what’s more she’s intrigued by curiosities. I’m freshly back myself; I can’t say I miss the London air, though the tea is – I’m a tea-drinker. Very delightful. I was invited to see the Queen herself – gratitude for some small act of economic service on my part, or so they said – and she served the most sublime Earl Grey. The biscuits that went with it…”

Slater proceeds to describe the refreshments in great detail. Phillip maintains a steady stream of hums and nods, but his mind is spinning in an entirely new direction. _Patron of the arts. Intrigued by curiosities. Invited to see the Queen…_

“Fascinating,” Phillip says when Slater finally begins to wind down. “It sounds like a highly successful visit.”

“Oh yes. Her Majesty asked if there was any small favour she might do for me – I couldn’t think of anything, of course, what could a humble businessman like me possibly ask of Her Grace? – but I assured her that if anything ever came to my attention…Well. Pleasantries, you know.”

Phillip could chortle with glee. “Mister Slater, our meeting tonight is fortuitous,” he says, guiding the man away from the crowd. “You see, I find myself in a dilemma.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, I’ve promised to help a friend expand his business, generate some higher-class revenue, the like. But even with the success of my play it’s proving difficult.”

“I see,” Slater says coyly. “Is he a difficult man to elevate?”

“Extremely. I’m highly invested in my friend’s success – both financially and otherwise. I won’t see him fail.”

“And might you reveal the name of this friend?”

This time Phillip doesn’t turn his head. “He happens to be discussing _hors d’oeuvres_ with Bradley by the punch table.”

“I thought that might be the case,” Slater says self-satisfactorily.

“He’s done more for me than I can adequately explain. I don’t like to see him suffer from a poor reputation. It hurts him – he feels it deeply. And I wonder, based on the thrust of our conversation, if there’s any way…”

“You sly young fox.”

“I would apologise, but I’m all out of regret.”

Slater grins. “I knew your father’s cunning couldn’t have gone to waste in service of the law,” he chuckles. “Very well, Carlyle, let’s do business. A favour for a favour – what do you have in mind?”

“A little impudence on your part, a little boot-licking on mine.”

“By _impudence_ you mean my importuning Her Majesty…”

“A man with royal approval can hardly be openly scorned, can he?”

“And the boot-licking?”

“Whatever you see fit. My tongue is at your disposal.”

Slater laughs and thumps him on the back. “If I was another man I might take that a different way,” he says. “But I’m generous toward the crafty. You leave it to me, young Phillip. I’ll write some letters, send some telegrams…and you get that tongue wet. You’re going to be using it a good deal before you wag it in the Queen’s courts.”

His spirits soaring, Phillip finds Barnum as he finishes up a conversation with the mayor’s aide. “ _Everybody’s_ here tonight,” the ringmaster says in a low voice, nervous excitement vibrating in his every movement. “With this crowd I feel like anything could happen.”

Phillip plucks two drinks off a passing waiter’s tray. “I suppose anything could,” he says, holding out one of the flutes. “I think a toast is in order. Don’t argue, Barnum – you look like you could use a drink, and I promise this is my only one.”

“What are we toasting?” Barnum takes the champagne warily, studying Phillip’s face with muted concern. “And don’t think I’m not going to be smelling your breath later.”

A passing lady gives him a look. “The circus,” Phillip says. “And its beautiful, impossible insanity.” What he really wants to say is that Barnum saved him, that he went after Goddard for him and ended up in jail, and that Phillip will forever be indebted to his bruised knuckles and injured soul. But he’s already tried saying that, and it’s not a conversation Barnum is interested in having, any more than the one about the breached contract. There are some things that are not meant to be said, but simply known, and it seems this is one of them.

So all he says is, “To Barnum’s Circus.”

Barnum smiles. “The circus,” he says. “The place where anything can happen.” They clink glasses. “The greatest show on earth.”

They drink, and the lights sparkle around them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow - I don't even know what to say. This journey is finally over and I'm so glad I took it. You have all been so encouraging to me as I've wrestled with this beast of a story, and I can't adequately express how grateful I am for your many comments and kudos. Keep on encouraging each other, guys, that's what this site is all about!


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